


Some Kind of Madness

by thegraytigress



Series: The Sexy Misadventures of Agents Romanoff and Rogers [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Drama, F/M, Humor, Romance, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:24:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's almost like they've been consumed by some kind of madness.  After months of seeming perpetual bliss (and endless sex), Steve and Natasha have their first real, serious, no-holds-barred fight.  Casualties include a storage closet, Clint's patience, and both their dignities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Kind of Madness

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** E (for language, violence, adult situations, strong sexual content)
> 
>  **AUTHOR’S NOTE:** Remember how I said the last story in this series was the smuttiest thing I have ever written? I was wrong. _This_ is the smuttiest thing I have ever written. Herein I answer a prompt for angry/rough sex, so I hope you find it angry and rough enough. This story is a bit of a departure from how I usually write Steve/Natasha (with them happy and sweet and perfect together), so beware of fighting, arguing, bickering, and both of them being pretty awful to each other (in a loving way? :-P). The title comes from Muse's "Madness", which I think pretty accurately describes any bad fight between two people in love. Anyway, enjoy!

There were definitely some parts of being in love with Captain America that well and truly _sucked._   Things that pissed Natasha off to no end.  Things that got under her skin, made her blood boil, made her wonder who in her right mind would want to put up with _this_.  There were the normal boyfriend things, she supposed (not that she had ever been in a committed relationship like this before, but she had to imagine these were the normal boyfriend things.  Things like him leaving the toilet seat up and not listening to what she told him and leaving his clothes on the floor and putting empty cartons of juice back in the refrigerator.  Those sorts of mundane domestic issues that drove her just a little more _insane_ every day).  But this sort of stuff…  This was very uniquely a problem with dating Captain America.

And she was frankly at her wit’s end with it.  “What the hell were you thinking?” she snapped.

Steve propped himself up an elbow, wincing at the SHIELD medics working on his torn up leg.  His face twisted up into an even tighter grimace as they set his broken tibia and equally broken ankle.  “Can we not do this right now?  I’m not feeling too hot.”

Had she not been reeling _still_ with how this latest stupid stunt had nearly cost him his life, she might have cared about the fact that he was in some pretty significant pain.  As it was, though, with her heart still pounding and her head aching with the drop in adrenaline and her skin tingling with the close call…  Well, she couldn’t manage much sympathy.  “Hurts then, does it?”

Steve closed his eyes and leaned back again.  He was pretty pale, sweating profusely and trembling a little.  The break wasn’t terribly bad, the medics had said, and the damage around it had bled a bit but wasn’t serious.  Still, if anyone else had stepped in front of that tank…  Anyone else would have been dead.  Steve’s bones were harder than hard, though, and his skin was thick and the serum healed him faster than any other person alive.  He was going to be fine.

So she didn’t feel too bad tormenting him.  Not bad enough to stop, anyway.  Because he was a _goddamn moron._   “Yeah, that looks like it stings something fierce.”

“Yeah,” Steve gasped.  “Yeah.”

She coolly arched an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest.  “Maybe you’ll think about that next time.”

“Huh?”

She’d seen him banged up and hurt more times than she cared to count, so she was well aware that his brain seemed to stop functioning when he was like this.  He typically had a hard time switching off from a fight (which was yet another one of those things that really grinded her gears sometimes, how he couldn’t let things go or even let things slide.  _Ever._   Oh, no.  With Captain America, everything always had to be done right away and to the best of one’s ability, from simple things like paper work to monumental tasks like rescuing civilians).  When he was in pain and comfortable enough with his surroundings to let it show, he tended to swing too far in the other direction.  So he looked positively flummoxed, which she normally found to be fairly adorable and endearing.  Normally.  Right now she was so angry and upset it was all she could do not to throttle him.  “Next time you’ll remember how much this _hurts_ –”  The nurses finished splinting his leg, and he actually cried out.  She couldn’t have timed that better.  Of course, she felt pretty bad right then that it _did_ hurt so much, but damn it, she’d been _terrified_ so he _deserved_ this.  “–before you go and do something this incredibly _stupid_ again.”

Steve fell back into the gurney, panting like crazy.  “What’re you talkin’ ’bout?” he slurred.

She let the nurses and doctors finish bandaging and wrapping up his leg.  They were discussing getting him into a walking cast, about crutches, about the break needing quite a few days to heal even with the serum.  _Good._   Not that these consequences would have any more effect than the dozens of times before this in the last year that she’d seen him take a bad hit.  And perhaps this was all a tad vindictive.  But, again, she really couldn’t bring herself to care.  She folded her arms over her chest as she took a step closer.  “I’m talking about you throwing yourself in front of a tank when I told you to stay put.”

Steve turned to her.  He was getting better control of his breathing, and his eyes were a bit clearer, but he was still surprised.  _Surprised._   She couldn’t believe him sometimes.  He was so smart and so fast and so clever, but he could be (and often was) completely oblivious.  “What?”

Natasha tried to have patience.  “I told you,” she said again, slowly, annunciating every syllable, “that I had the situation under control.  I had an EMP charge left.  I was prepared to deal with it.”  And she had been.  The battle had been a chaotic mess, no doubt about it.  From the minute the STRIKE Team had set foot in Madripoor, it had been sheer pandemonium.  Some sort of splinter terrorist group had gotten control of technology from AIM (which in turn seemed to be stolen from Stark somehow – Tony was still on the hunt for how he’d been hacked), so they’d gone up against some pretty high-tech weaponry.  The numerous tanks blasting their way through the city streets had been the biggest problem.  SHIELD had been coordinating the evacuation while its best soldiers and operatives handled the battle.  They’d arrived somewhat prepared with specialized EMP grenades and rounds for rifles, countermeasures that could render the advanced weaponry ineffective while preserving power to the surrounding city.  Even with that, though, it had quickly become a warzone in the streets, and the STRIKE Team, led by Captain America, Black Widow, and Hawkeye, had had to employ every bit of skill they had to stay alive.  Between the tanks and the specialized guns (that had seemed like a poor man’s repulsor canons) and the flying aircraft and soldiers, it had been a barely controlled disaster.

They’d come out on top, though, and there were hardly any civilian casualties (a few people had been injured during the escape, but no one was dead).  The property damage was fairly extensive, though, which always got the World Security Council pissed off.  That translated into a pissed off SHIELD Director, which then propagated down through the ranks.  So there was that adding to Natasha’s bad mood, but most of all?  It was her ridiculous idiot of a boyfriend (there was no sense in lying about it – that was what Steve was and _everyone_ knew it) and the fact that he’d _yet again_ taken a hit he should not have taken.

And he didn’t even realize it.  He shook his head.  “Nat, that thing was coming right at you.  I wasn’t going to take the chance the gunner might spot you.  I couldn’t just–”

“Yes, you _should_ have,” she snapped.  “I had a clear shot.  I could have stopped it dead in its tracks.”

“There wasn’t time,” he insisted.  “It was going to fire at you.”

“I had cover!”

“It wasn’t good enough.”

She fought hard not to yell at him.  “It was the side of a damn building, Steve.  And even if it hadn’t been enough to stop the shot, I had a way out.  I had help, too.  Clint was right there, not that I needed him.  I can handle myself.”  He looked away, not quite in shame but obviously in irritation.  She wasn’t going to let him escape.  “You never stop and think, do you?”

His face fractured.  “Think about what?  That thing blowing you up?  Yes, I thought about that.  And I decided I would rather that not happen.”  God, she could _eviscerate_ him.  The urge to do that itched its way through her, and she tightened every muscle in her body to keep it restrained.  The nurses and doctors seemed to realize she was on the brink because they finished up with his leg in a hurry and high-tailed it out of there.  That was nice.  They could have some privacy considering how this was going.  And he still didn’t seem to recognize the trouble he was in.  “This is why you’re mad?” he said, shaking his head.  “’Cause I saved you?  Nat, come on.  You know I trust you to take care of yourself.”

This had been a bone of contention between them before.  They’d been “officially” together for more than six months now, though they’d had feelings for one another long before that.  Their partnership had grown into friendship, a very strong friendship (that in and of itself was unusual for her, considering who she was and how she’d been trained to live in the Red Room.  It was even stranger considering how different they were, but Steve was by far and away the sweetest, strongest, and most decent man she’d ever known.  It was hard not to admire that, to let that in and let it change her).  It had taken a single bad mission in which they’d both been hit (and hurt) fairly significantly for their relationship to move into something more.  They’d spent a much earned respite at his apartment, recovering emotionally and physically, and by the time they’d gone back to work, they’d become lovers and she had moved in with him.

Of course, _becoming_ lovers had changed everything.  The well-defined boundaries between their careers and their personal lives had blurred instantly.  They were still partners and teammates and Avengers, but now they were _together_ as well.  Living together and loving each other.  That complicated everything.  Detaching from the emotional aspects of their relationship and maintaining a professional level of decorum became a challenge (and she had wholly unanticipated that, that she’d _ever_ had trouble with keeping her distance from someone).  It was hard not to flirt with him on the job (well, flirt with more of a purpose – she’d always loved flirting with him even when it had possessed some façade of innocence).  It was hard not to bring squabbles at home onto a mission or issues from work back to his apartment.  It was hard to think of him as a teammate, a resource on the battlefield or a commanding officer, when she knew him so intimately.  Like how he sang old songs from the thirties in the shower or that he put ketchup on everything or that coffee was his favorite ice cream flavor or that he wore boxers instead of briefs or that he _loved_ Disney movies.  Frankly it was hard not to climb him like a tree pretty much every time she was with him (God, the effect he had on her.  He was like a drug and she was a happy, willing, desperate addict).  It didn’t help that he looked like he did, with his handsome, wholesome face and his gorgeous blue eyes and his plush lips and, well, _everything_ else.  And it didn’t help that he dressed his two hundred fifty pound, six-foot, muscle-bound, _perfectly proportioned_ frame like he was still a ninety pound, five-foot stick of an asthmatic boy.  He didn’t own a shirt that fit him right.

So it was hard to keep her hands to herself.  He seemed to be suffering from a similar affliction if the number of times they’d had sex (sometimes in what would probably be construed as inappropriate places) in the last few months was any indication.  Even now, as furious as she was, as pathetic as he was, she couldn’t help but appreciate how good he looked, all sweaty and glazed in the eyes and dressed in that damn dark blue stealth suit.  It should be a crime, how that thing fit him.  She thought yet again that she should hunt down the SHIELD uniform designers and tailors responsible for this, but she was always uncertain if she should destroy them completely or thank them personally for ruining her for anyone else.  And she was that: wrecked for anyone else _ever._ It was unbearable, sometimes, the things Steve did to her (obliviously or not – she’d quickly learned that he could be the world’s biggest little shit when it suited him.  Boy had that come as a surprise).

But it wasn’t even _that_ so much that was the problem.  She could exert some self-control when it was necessary.  She was Black Widow, for crying out loud.  She _lived_ for control.  She could keep her hands to herself.  No, it was _love_ that was the problem.  Love complicated everything.  She’d been taught that in the Red Room, had it drilled into her over and over again.  _Never love._   Well, she’d broken that rule rather fabulously.  And she wasn’t blind to her own transgressions on this account.  She loved him – God, she loved him – so her tolerance for shit like this had been rather quickly depleted.  He was by far and away the most chivalrous, stubbornly noble, and blindly naïve person she knew.  Some magical transformation had clearly occurred between her being simply his partner and his friend to her being the woman he loved.  Suddenly he was _always_ protecting her from _everything_.  Bad moments in the field.  Fury’s wrath when things went south.  Gossip.  Christ, he opened doors for her and pulled out her chair and carried her things for her whenever they were together.  The thing was, though, even _that_ wasn’t so much the problem, even though they’d argued about it before.  She could learn to live with that.  It wasn’t out of disrespect or distrust or doubt that he protected her like he did.  That was simply who he was: a gentleman.

No, the problem was _this._   This… goddamn frustrating, thoughtless, careless, so selfless it was freaking selfish _bullshit_.  “You don’t get it,” she seethed.  “You don’t get why _this_ is an issue!”

“What was I supposed to do?” he replied tautly.

“Let me handle it, like I said I would!  You need to stop protecting me all the time like I’m some… some… _damsel_ in distress.  I did just fine before you came to SHIELD.  You realize that, right?  And as I recall, I taught _you_ how to be a SHIELD agent, not the other way around.  You need to back off and let me do my job.”

He grimaced.  “C’mon.  Don’t be like that.”

She wasn’t going to be dissuaded.  “But you playing my hero again is not what upset me.”

“Could have fooled me.”

 _Patience._ She summoned a measure of cool headedness.  “What upset me,” she said calmly but sternly, “was seeing you _yet again_ throw yourself in the line of fire for no reason.”  Confusion crossed his face anew.  “You don’t even see how reckless you are.  I had to watch _yet again_ today as you put yourself in serious danger.  I thought the blast from that tank killed you.”  Her voice cracked despite her attempts to control it.  She was _not_ going to let her emotions get the better of her, even if the image of the energy blast against Steve’s shield and body was tormenting her still, an hour after it had happened.  Even if she could still feel the jolt of the helpless horror when the building beside him had exploded and the consuming relief when she’d finally thrown the EMP grenade and run to the rubble to find him buried in it, alive but pinned with one leg crushed.  He didn’t even realize what he did to her.  “I thought you were dead.”

“Nat–”

“ _No._   No, you don’t get to argue.  It was bad enough before we–”  She faltered and lowered her voice.  “It was bad enough before us.  But now I can’t take it anymore.  I can’t take you doing this.”

His eyes flashed in equal parts stubbornness and shame.  “ _This_ is what I do.  I’m supposed to–”

“You’re supposed to fight and protect people.  I get that.  But what you’ve been doing?  That’s not protecting anyone.  That’s just being impulsive and foolish.”  His eyes flashed.  “Throwing yourself off buildings?  Jumping out of planes without a parachute on?  Going up against whole companies of soldiers by yourself?  Not waiting for backup?  Christ, just last week you ran _back_ in a burning building to double check for civilians _after_ Rumlow called it clear!”  That had been another heart attack on her part, and for what?  The building had been exactly what Rumlow had said: _clear._   “You take too many unnecessary risks!  And like I said: you never even stop and think about it.  You just do it.  You’re a tactical mastermind, Steve, but when it comes to evaluating your own choices, you suck at it.”

“No one got hurt!” he retorted.  She could see she was upsetting him.

“Except for you, and I know the serum makes it seem like that doesn’t matter, _but it matters._   You treat your body like you treat that goddamn shield of yours.  You throw yourself around like you’re indestructible, and it has to _stop._ ”  The serum was amazing.  She’d seen firsthand what it could do, but even it had limits.  And sometimes the blessing was a curse, because it turned the world’s best soldier into a veritable reckless asshole with no care or concern for how his self-sacrificing decisions were affecting the people who cared about him.

Flying a plane full of bombs into the ice shelf of Greenland was a pretty stellar example of that.

She would never say that, though.  Think it, sure, and know it was true but never, _ever_ say it.

He sighed, staring down at his bandaged, lamed leg.  For a moment, she thought she’d gotten through to him.  He had a slump in his shoulders that usually signified defeat.  So she moved closer to offer him a hug and a kiss (to hell with people seeing).

But he was Captain America, and Captain America didn’t back down from a fight.  “I didn’t make a bad call out there.”

 _Goddamn you, Rogers._   The anger that had been cooling suddenly went into an all-out boil, and it took everything she had _not_ to hit him.  Luckily for his sake, Clint made his way toward them through the triage center that SHIELD and the UN had set up outside Madripoor’s main municipality.  That pulled her away from her fury, so instead she backed away from the bed, folding her arms anew across her breasts, and glared daggers at her boyfriend.  “Good news,” the archer announced as he reached them.  “I got us onto the next jet back to the helicarrier.  With any luck, we’ll be home before…  Okay, what happened.”  Clint was very no-nonsense, and he had all the social graces of a wet sponge at times, but he was extremely perceptive, particularly when it came to the well-being of his former partner and best friend.  His sharp eyes glanced between the two of them.  They were each making a pointed effort _not_ to look at the other, which was a pretty stark reversal of how they normally were.  Clint sighed.  “Do I want to know?”

“Clint, tell Steve he made an impulsive, stupid, _reckless_ decision throwing himself in front of that tank.”  It wasn’t a request.  No, that was an order, and it was one she expected to be followed.

Clint’s eyes widened a little.  Again he turned his gaze between them.  “Uh…”

“Tell him.”  Barton had to defer to her.  _He had to._ They’d been partners for _years_ before Fury had reassigned her to work with Steve.  They were closer than friends, closer than siblings.  That relationship trumped any sort of bond he could have possibly have had with Steve.  No bromance here.  _Not today._   She leveled her most intimidating stare at him and leveled it hard.  “Tell him he got himself hurt _yet again_ and there’s no excuse for it.”

Steve flushed with embarrassment.  She was really pissing him off now.  _Good!_   “Nat, come on.”

“Are you two fighting?  Like, _fighting_ fighting?”

Natasha resisted the urge to roll her eyes and silently took back all the complimentary thoughts she’d just had (or _ever_ had) about Clint being perceptive.  “We’re not fighting,” she declared sharply, even though her tone belied that.  “We’re debriefing.”  Steve was rigid with anger and not even looking at her, staying put probably only because he couldn’t physically get up and run.

“Debriefing?”  Clint grimaced.  “That sounds… fun.”

“So, Agent Barton, in your honest and expert tactical opinion, was it necessary for Captain Rogers to place himself in harm’s way during the battle to incapacitate the last enemy tank?”  This was low, and she knew it.  And she also knew that she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed Steve’s tendency to unnecessarily endanger himself.  More than Clint’s allegiance to her, she figured the chance to confront and curtail that behavior would probably bring him to her side.

Not willingly, though.  “Nope.  No.  Uh-uh.  Staying out of this.”  Clint turned to go.  She reached out, though, and grabbed his arm, preventing his escape.  So what if she was torturing the two men in her life about whom she cared the most.  This point needed to be made.  _This fight needed to be won._

She was Black Widow, and she, too, didn’t back down.

And Clint knew that.  So he sighed, blowing it out between his lips hard enough to ruffle his spiky, mussed hair.  “Okay,” he acquiesced.  “Okay, understand I’m not taking sides here.  This is impartial.”  _Nice disclaimer.  Now take my side._   Clint couldn’t stop wincing.  “And, impartially…  Well…  Steve…  She’s right.  Absolutely.  We had it covered.  You really didn’t need to…”  Steve frown turned impossibly deeper, so deep in fact that the downturn of his lips was really furrowing his forehead, and Natasha swore for a moment she could hear him grind his teeth.  Clint nodded.  “Okay!  My work here is done.  You two can work this out yourselves.”  He ran, and this time she didn’t stop him.

Proud of herself but still so damn _mad_ , Natasha turned back to her boyfriend.  “Well?”

He’d averted his eyes hotly in a very _un_ -Captain America like show of indignant anger and disingenuous submission.  “Alright.  Fine.  If you’re gonna make a big deal about it?  _Fine._ I made a mistake.  There.”  And there.  That was it.  It was over, and he was admitting he was wrong, and everything was fine.  Right?

One look and she knew that was far from the case.  Steve glanced at her, and now he was the one who was glaring daggers.  “Are you happy?”

It wasn’t until they were halfway back to the helicarrier that she realized…  No, she actually wasn’t.

* * *

So they were fighting now.

Honest to God _fighting._

Maybe Clint really _was_ perceptive.

To be fair, this wasn’t World War III, guns blazing and politicians loudly declaring war from the pulpit fighting.  This was more Cold War, you-show-me-yours-and-I’ll-show-you-mine, silence and stewing and tactical plotting.  They weren’t shouting at each other.  They weren’t arguing.  They weren’t talking _period_ , which was all kinds of disturbing.  Steve’s apartment, which had so often been filled with light conversation and laughing and happiness and, well, _other_ more pleasured noises…  It was starkly quiet.

Two days after the battle in Madripoor, the awkward tension between them had really ramped up.  Neither of them had made any effort to apologize.  That was unusual, particularly for Steve who was often quick to anger but just as quick to admit fault and say he was sorry.  Not this time, it seemed.  Then again, they’d never really fought before.  They’d had days where they’d bickered, where they’d rubbed each other wrong, where they’d picked at one another.  What couple didn’t?  But it had always been over little, stupid stuff for the most part.  And, again, Steve had always been quick to apologize (even if it hadn’t wholly been his fault, or his fault at all…), quick to prostrate himself before her and practically beg forgiveness, and quick to make it up to her with mind-blowing sex.  _Not this time._ This time he was limping around on crutches, engaging in only the bare minimum of terse conversation to live together functionally but otherwise ignoring her.  There were times when he probably could have used her help, like with getting dressed or carrying in groceries or anything else where having a hurt leg was a pretty serious detriment, but he didn’t ask.

Although, to be fair, she didn’t offer.  She should have.  And she should have apologized (even though she wasn’t wrong _at all_.  But she’d come at him meanly and when he’d been somewhat vulnerable (if one counted a broken leg as _vulnerable_ ), and being angry wasn’t a good excuse for how she’d treated him (not really), so at the very least she could be the bigger person and break the uncomfortable silence (seriously – she should have)).  But she didn’t.  It was too damn hard to stuff her pride.  Furthermore, the awkwardness was hard to overcome.  How would she even apologize?  How could she start that conversation?  She’d never done anything like that before, so she was at a complete loss.  Every time she drummed up the courage to confront him, her bravery fizzled and her anger rekindled at the sight of the walking cast on his leg.  No, she wasn’t going to be the one to cave first.  This was a literal Cold War, America’s super soldier against the Russian super spy (okay, that was stupidly dramatic but still).  National pride and all.  Russians never surrendered.  Plus he owed her for making her feel so frightened.  Plus he owed her for dragging this out.  Plus he owed her for making her feel so rotten and guilty over the fact that they were fighting at all.  This was surprisingly miserable, being at odds with someone you loved.  Being unable or unwilling to work out your differences.

So the silence persisted.  It was rough.  Equally so was the fact that they weren’t _touching_ each other.  It was probably shallow (and maybe a little perverted) but two people who hadn’t been able to keep their hands from each other, who hungered and thirsted for each other, who had sex almost like it was a religion, who snuggled and cuddled just as much…  The fact that all of that was just suddenly _gone_ was weird and distressing.  Every day for months she’d kissed Steve, held Steve, let Steve kiss and hold and _cherish_ her.  Now there was nothing.  It was almost like phantom limb pain, the way her nerves tingled with the abrupt loss.  They barely brushed by each other as they went through their morning routines.  They barely even _looked_ at each other.  Their schedules at SHIELD kept them separately occupied, and there was no effort to meet for lunch and steal a kiss or two as they had been for months.  When they were together, all they did was quietly bicker and subtly push one another’s buttons or pointedly ignore each other.

Worse, at night there was distance between them.  Suddenly there was _her_ side of the bed and _his._   Even while they slept somehow they maintained that separation.  Steve was a veritable octopus in bed, all long, encompassing arms and tangled legs, but for the first time in what felt like forever, she woke up with him _not touching her._   Not there at all, actually.  He always came back to bed after his morning run for a cuddle and a kiss.  She usually greeted the day to his tender lips and reverent hands, to the way he tasted and smelled and felt all around her.  She ached with the loss of that.  She felt _wrong_ without it.

She didn’t like this at all, but she was too hurt and baleful to fix it.  Besides, why should _she_ fix it?  Again, that was damn petty and childish, but she couldn’t stop herself.  And she was further pissed off that _he_ wasn’t fixing it.  That he didn’t seem to care or notice that she was frustrated and miserable inside and completely incapable of making it better herself.  Of course, he couldn’t read her mind, and she knew she was difficult to figure out, even for Steve who she’d let past her defenses and into her heart.  That still didn’t grant him telepathy, so she really couldn’t expect him to simply deduce the source of her silent anguish (or that she was anguished at all).  However, she wanted him to.  She _deserved_ that.  It was so damn circular and illogical and it went around and around for days, two more after the first two, and, God, this was _awful_.

She was going over mission reports later that week when there was a knock at the door.  Surprised considering it was fairly late and she wasn’t expecting anyone, she went to the front of the apartment.  Outside, Clint was there.  “What are you doing here?” she asked after she’d unlocked and opened the door.

He lifted a couple of SHIELD-issue tablets.  “Dropping these off.  More field notes.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.  “There’s this invention called email.”

“You know how old-fashioned I am,” Clint dryly replied, inviting himself in without much ado.  He looked around.  “Rogers out?”

“He’s not back from the Triskelion yet.”  Clint nodded, appraising the apartment.  It was still mostly Steve’s stuff (although what was his wasn’t _his_ , per se.  It was what SHIELD had selected for him).  There were a few of her touches, though.  A couple of her books on the coffee table.  DVDs she’d brought.  Her jacket on the coat rack and her phone on the breakfast bar and flowers she’d bought in a vase on the table.  One of her favorite throws from her place on the couch.  Clint took all of that in, and Natasha watched him.  He was never a very convincing actor.  “You knew that already.”

“What makes you say that?”  He handed her the tablets.  “Can’t I want to check in on paradise?”  Yeah, that was bullshit.  Clint had been nothing but gently supportive of her relationship with Steve (as he had been with, well, _everything_ since he’d brought her to SHIELD five years ago).  He wasn’t subtle, though, not about checking up on her or anything else.  And that was what he was doing here.  Checking up on her, which was easier to do without Steve around.  “You two still fighting?”

Sometimes she appreciated his inability to be tactful or beat around the bush.  Sometimes.  After a week of feeling absolutely _unhappy_ , this wasn’t one of those moments.  “We’re not fighting.”

“Still debriefing?”

“Yes.”  She was trying not to be short with him, but she really didn’t want to discuss this, not even with him.  The urge to ignore it all was pretty strong.  To reduce her relationship with Steve to just sex and convenience or something of the like because that was easier (and safer) than dealing with her actual feelings.  She knew Clint would never buy that, though.  “Is there something else you wanted?”

Clint stopped making a pretense of looking around their place and turned to her.  He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets.  “I am here on behalf of, well, myself and probably everyone else at SHIELD with whom you two work on a regular basis.  You and Cap need to kiss and make up.”

Her eyebrow twitched.  “What?”

Clint rolled his eyes like he was submitting to his conscience a little.  “Okay, and I’m here for you.  But mostly for me and everyone else because the fact that you two are kinda sorta still ‘debriefing’ is a hot button topic right now.  It’s really bringing productivity down.”  She could do without his snark.  _Really._   He sighed at the murderous expression she knew was plastered all over her face.  “Look, Nat, in all seriousness, I know you’re mad at him and he’s probably mad at you, but take it from me…  It’s not worth it.  And dragging this on is only going to make it worse.  Stuff like this…  Well, when you’re in love with someone, the little things tend to escalate.”  She was going to argue that her boyfriend continually _putting himself in danger to save her_ was not a “little thing”, but he didn’t give her a chance (and maybe, just maybe, in their line of work it was).  “It’s like a snowball effect.  Feelings get hurt and no one’s man – or woman – enough to apologize.  Then people are stewing and brooding and more little things cause more grief and more fighting and suddenly you’re snapping at other people who are innocent bystanders–”

“I have not been–”

His cool, knowing look silenced her.  Okay, she had been… short-tempered with people of late.  Icier and harsher than normal.  She was an addict suffering through withdrawal, after all.  “Pretty soon there’s another little fight that explodes into a big deal.  And another.  And the little snowball is an avalanche and everyone in the vicinity is run over and please for the love of God _kiss and make up._ ”  Clint shook his head.  “I don’t think you two even realize how much power you have over everyone else.  And, believe me, it’s like a kick in the balls to have to come here and tell you that.  But you guys being at each other’s throats is making everyone else unhappy so stop.”  She hadn’t thought about it that way.  Hadn’t realized it, just as Clint said.  She hadn’t thought they were being so obvious.  Clint took a step closer, grasping her shoulders.  “Nat, I know you love him.  And everyone the world over sure as hell knows he loves you.  The thing is, though, when you love someone, you have to accept their faults and their mistakes and who they are.”  She opened her mouth to argue, but yet again he stopped her before she could.  “And that’s not to say he’s not wrong.  Believe me, I probably lose a year off my life from stress every time Cap’s throwing himself in the line of fire, and I’d rather not.  But that’s who he is, and it’s not a bad thing all the time.  So he should work on being smarter about it, and you should work on accepting that it’s necessarily going to make you scared from time to time, and compromise and all that good stuff, and move on.  It’s not worth feeling like this over.  Communication is key here, not being right.”

For some reason, her eyes burned.  It was damn embarrassing, and he knew her so well that she couldn’t hide it (particularly not with his hands firm on her shoulders and his gaze locked and unwavering on hers).  “Go parent your own children,” she quipped around a faltering smile.

He gave a little grin.  A compassionate one.  All kidding aside, she knew he cared.  He cared deeply.  “Don’t let this get worse, okay?  I’m telling you it’s not worth it.  All couples fight.  It’s inevitable.  He’s not perfect, and neither are you, and there’s no such thing as being perfect together all the time.  And it’s not disagreeing or arguing that’s the problem.  It’s how you deal with it that really means something.  It’s coming through to the other side more in love, not less.  So let it go, huh?  It’s just not worth it.”  He pulled her into a hug, and she let him.  It felt good after almost a week of no meaningful physical contact (when had she let herself become so dependent on other people?).  “It’ll be alright.”

That was the thing about Clint.  Blunt and few personal graces and the social acumen of a wet sponge, yes, but _perceptive._   And a really good friend.  “Okay,” she said.

He pulled back and nodded.  “Good.  Like I said, having you two fighting is making life shitty for everyone, so it was time to put the kibosh on that crap.”  Natasha rolled her eyes a little.  “When he comes back, just tell him you’re sorry.  Knowing him, he’ll immediately start begging you to forgive him, and everything will end with a good round of make-up sex–”

She actually blushed.  “Christ, Clint.  Stop.”

“Which is why fighting is worth it sometimes.  The make-up sex.”

“Go embarrass your own children!”  She pushed him away.

He laughed.  “Seriously.  When he comes back, just tell him–”

“Tell me what?”

They both turned to where the door of the apartment had been left open.  Steve was there, leaning a little on his crutch to keep the weight off his leg.  He had a bouquet of roses, lush red and pink ones, and a plastic bag over his free forearm.  He looked… troubled.  Defensive.  Prickly.  Like he didn’t appreciate that Clint was there and they’d been talking.

Clint smiled disarmingly.  “Heya, Cap.  How’s the leg?”

Steve managed a similar, friendly gesture.  “Fine.  Got another few days of downtime.”

“Well, I know how I’d spend that,” Clint declared, giving Natasha a wink.  She wanted to murder him.  “So I’ll get out of your hair.  Later.”  With that, he left.

Steve lingered by the door a few seconds after Clint passed him, staring at her.  He still seemed guarded.  Maybe a little betrayed, like he thought she was airing out their dirty laundry with someone else.  But if he really believed that, he didn’t say that.  He limped inside, pausing to close the door behind him.  He held out the flowers like some sort of peace offering.  “For you.”

Tentatively she took them, feeling more unsettled than she knew she should.  It was nice of him to do that (unimaginative and very traditional, but nice).  “Thank you.  They’re beautiful.”  And they were.  She loved roses, too, and these were stunning.  Plus it wasn’t exactly rose season, so they probably cost quite a bit.  These weren’t afterthought roses off the back of a truck on the side of the road.  These had obviously been well loved by a florist.  She went to the kitchen to find a vase, trying to figure out what to say.  Clint’s advice clung to her thoughts, but she didn’t know _how_ to do it.  It didn’t seem to be within her, to just offer up an apology so cleanly and simply and let it go.  She was much better about being compassionate and empathetic than she used to be, but some things still didn’t, and maybe never would, come easy to her.  So as her thoughts spun and she tried to gather her wits and boldly declare _I’m sorry_ , what came out was, “How was your day?”

That was nice.  Pleasant.  Non-confrontational.  “Good.  PT was a waste of time.”  The SHIELD doctors had insisted he follow protocols for his injury despite their uselessness.  Thus he was undergoing a week of physical therapy, which really _was_ a waste of his time and theirs.  The serum kept his joints, muscles, and bones in top condition no matter what, so there’d be no loss of motion or permanent damage.  And it probably should have rung a warning bell or two that he was actually admitting it was a waste.  He tended to look on the bright side of everything.  “But it was fine.  You?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

She finished putting the roses in the vase and set them on the counter.  Then she eyed the bag on his arm.  He hadn’t made any effort to so much as move it.  “What’s in there?”

Now he gave a genuine (albeit weak) smile.  “I was hoping I’d get here before you, so that I’d have the chance to…  Well, here.”

She took it and looked inside.  There was a card in a red envelope and a small tub of Häagan Das chocolate ice cream.  Her favorite.  He knew her weaknesses, and she couldn’t help but smile at that.  “Thanks,” she said more genuinely.  She pulled it free and put it in the freezer.  After that she took the card.

“Happy early Valentine’s Day,” he offered with half a grin.

 _Valentine’s Day._   Yeah, she’d completely forgotten about that stupid excuse for a holiday where people in love doted and gloated and everyone else was made to feel lonely and inadequate.  She’d never cared for it, never liked all the stupid bullshit about hearts and flowers and frilly, shallow sentiments.  So that was sort of a turn-off.  They hadn’t discussed Valentine’s once.   It was next weekend, in fact, and she couldn’t have cared less.

But she opened the card anyway.  It was surprisingly sedate, not covered in hearts or flower or glitter or the like, but just simple with silver script that said “Love”.  What was inside was even more surprising.  “What’s this?”

“Airplane tickets.”  He was smiling now, happy about whatever he’d done.

She pulled them out.  “Aspen?”

“I thought after all of this, it might be good to get away for a couple of days.  You know, a vacation.”  Now he beamed.  “A romantic getaway?  Just you and me and a lodge…”  She didn’t know what to make of this.  That _did_ sound nice, incredibly so.  Leave all the stress of SHIELD and the Avengers behind for a weekend.  Enjoy each other.  _Feast_ on each other (after the week of forced abstinence, that alone was a major draw).  Lazing in front of a fire, eating expensive, decadent food, making love whenever and wherever they wanted…  “Supposedly it’s phenomenal.  Skiing and snowboarding, which I’d like to try.  Tony recommended this place actually.”

That stopped her fantasy cold.  She lowered the card and glared at him.  “You talked to Tony?”

His face fractured in confusion.  “Yeah?  I mean, I asked him what he thought about where to take you.”

That sat _really_ wrong with her.  “Tony knows we’re fighting?”

Now he blanched for just a second, and that was all the confirmation she needed.  Then his face hardened.  “What?  No, I didn’t tell him.”  Furious, she tossed the card and the tickets to the counter and turned her back on him.  “What would it matter if I did?  Tony’s my friend, and obviously Clint knows!”

“Clint figured it out,” she returned lowly.  “I didn’t tell him anything.”

“And that’s okay with you, but Tony figuring it out isn’t.”  His eyes flashed with equal parts anger and pain.  She said nothing.  She trusted Stark about as far as she could throw him (well, about as far as she could throw Iron Man).  And, yeah, Steve was close with him (as unlikely as they were together, Tony was one of the few friends Steve had, so she really shouldn’t begrudge him that).  But she’d been stewing isolation while he’d been off dumping his problems on someone else?  It made her blood _boil_.

Steve sighed.  “Look, I just asked him for ideas and he put two and two together, alright?  You’re always telling me what a terrible liar I am.  Well, you’re not wrong.”

“He pay for it, too?”

Jesus, that was a low blow.  She regretted it the second it was out of her mouth, and the hurt splaying across his expression was immediate.  He was a better man than anyone gave him credit for, though.  He just raised his chin and seethed in silence for a moment.  “I don’t want to fight anymore.  I wanted to make this better.”

“With a romantic getaway on a stupid holiday?”

“ _Yes,_ ” he snapped, “because I’m sorry I made you upset.”  There it was.  One of them had finally said it, and they were so irate with each other again that it hardly made a difference.  His tone was nothing but bitter, which made the apology sound anything but sincere.  “I’m sorry about that, okay?”

She whirled on him, eyes flashing, heart aching.  This was senselessly escalating, and she knew it.  It was escalating to the point where they were both going to say things they’d regret.  _She knew that._  But it was impossible to stop.  “ _That’s_ not enough!  And you don’t even mean it!”

He stepped closer, limped in fact, but somehow it was fast and almost threatening.  Almost.  “What do you want from me, Nat?  Huh?  I said I’m sorry.  I meant it a moment ago, and I mean it now.  And that’s it.”  He turned away and headed toward the living area.

Furious that he was trying to put a stop to this on his terms, she snatched his arm and held it tight.  “No, it’s not it.  I told you.”  She pulled him until he was looking at her.  “That’s _not_ enough.  You have to do more.”

“I am not going to apologize for protecting you!”  His loud voice echoed through his apartment.  All those sweet sounds of laughter and light conversation and _everything_ they shared when they made love were _light years_ away.  Even the silence was gone and desperately missed.  “I will _never_ apologize for that!  Do you understand?”

That stabbed into her heart like an icy knife.  God, it _hurt._   It hurt more than she ever fathomed _anything_ could hurt, despite all the dangers she’d faced and the times she’d been wounded in her life.  “I can’t do this,” she whispered.  “I can’t stand watching you do it anymore.”

“Why does it bother you so much?” he returned sharply.  “It never used to.  Not before we starting sleeping together.”  He sighed and shook his head helplessly.  “And if this was bothering you this much, why didn’t you say something?  Why can’t you just talk to me?  You _never_ do.  I tell you over and over again that I’m willing to listen, willing to help, and you never let me.  Every time you get mad or upset or frustrated with something, you shut me out.  I have to walk on eggshells around you until you either get over it on your own or work it out with Barton.”  The anger inside her was starting to border on rage.  “This whole week I have been waiting for you to tell me why you’re still upset about this, and you’d rather keep fighting than be honest with me.”

“And you’d rather keep fighting than admit you made a mistake,” she snarled.

He threw his hands up in exasperation.  “I _did_ admit it!  What, did you forget how you embarrassed me in front of everyone and tore me down back in Madripoor?  Did you forget that?”  He flopped onto the couch, grimacing all the way, his casted leg stretched out before him.  “Damn it.”

She put her hands on her hips, glaring at him.  “You didn’t mean it then, either.”

He stared at her, speechless for a moment.  “I guess you don’t trust me.  Maybe you never did.”  _That_ was a low blow on his part, knowing how difficult it was for her to do just that, to trust and be open and vulnerable with another person.  He knew how hard she worked to do that with him.  This was like clawing each other open, digging into old wounds and scars just for the sadistic, miserable pain of watching themselves bleed.  It was godawful.

He looked shaken.  Still, he clenched his jaw and sat up as much as he could.  “I’m not going to tell you I was wrong to protect you.  I love you.  I’m _always_ going to protect you.  If you think that’s stupid or reckless or demeaning, I’m sorry.  But I can’t stand by and do nothing when something or someone’s coming after you, whether it’s your past or another agent or a bad guy with a gun or a goddamn tank charging down the street.  End of discussion.”  He dropped his gaze to his hands where they were folded in his lap like to accentuate his point.

She was shaking.  _Shaking._ “You _still_ don’t get it!”  She’d said that a week ago.  She’d say it again and again and _again_ until he listened.  “You think I shut you out?  Well, take a look in the goddamn mirror.  You’d rather carry the whole fucking world on your shoulders than burden anyone else with your problems!  You do _that_ over and over again, Steve, until I can’t stand it.  I told you back there why I’m upset about this!  You _keep_ getting hurt!  And you don’t stop for one fucking second to think about how you’re hurting other people.”  He looked away, brow furrowed, eyes stubbornly wet though he kept blinking to hide it.  “I don’t know if you’re an adrenaline junkie or some sort of masochist or you hate your life here so much that you’d rather be dead or you think this is all you’re good for – taking hits and getting up again and taking hits until you can’t anymore.  I don’t know what goes through your head.  But don’t you _dare_ sit there and tell me it’s my fault!  Don’t tell me you’re doing it for me because I call _bullshit_ on that!”  She turned away and retreated to the kitchen because she _was not_ going to cry in front of him.

But he followed her.  She could hear his cast bang on the coffee table as he clambered to his feet.  He moved fast for being down a leg, grabbing her wrist tightly but not painfully.  “Nat, what do you mean by that?” he demanded.  She wrenched her arm away, glaring, and kept going.  “What do you mean?”

Fiery, she turned on him.  And now she went right to the place she’d sworn before she’d never go.  “I meant that you flew a plane into the ice instead of trying _everything_ you could to save yourself.  You sat there, promising a bunch of lies to the woman you loved and who loved you, and let yourself die.  You sacrificed yourself and left everyone who cared about you behind to suffer.  You want to know why this bothers me?  Huh?”  She pushed him back.  “ _That’s_ why!”  It was hateful, awful, the worst thing she’d ever said to anyone, but she couldn’t stop herself.  “I think I’d rather be _anywhere_ else than be in Peggy Carter’s place.”

Silence.

He went absolutely white.  His eyes were wide.  He wasn’t breathing.  Natasha snapped out of her rage and directly plummeted into abject horror over _what she’d said._   “Steve, I – I…”

Her phone beeped from the coffee table.  His did from his pocket.  He seemed to shrink before her eyes, staggering back and reaching a shaking hand into his jacket to pull the device loose.  He thumbed it on and scrolled the screen.  “What is it?” she timidly asked.

“Mission.”

* * *

Apparently defeat in Madripoor wasn’t much of a deterrent to these terrorist assholes.  They were back, attacking Hong Kong with another round of advanced weaponry, and this time they _really_ weren’t kidding around.  They went straight for civilians, using them like pawns in some sick game against SHIELD, and the threat of significant casualties was astronomical.  Fury had immediately dispatched the Avengers who were available and the STRIKE Team, and their mission was simple: stop the terrorists dead in their tracks.

Of course, they were at something of a disadvantage this time.  Captain America wasn’t in the field.  He was directing the defense from back at the mobile command center in the city’s southern district, just outside the battle zone.  Steve hadn’t even put up a fuss when SHIELD medical had refused to let him out into combat because of his leg, and if that wasn’t a sign he was upset, Natasha didn’t know what was.  Frankly, she was thankful he wasn’t with her, and not just because she wanted him safe while he was incapacitated.  She didn’t think she could stand to be at his side.  She was so ashamed but at the same time still so angry, angry at herself and angry at him.  Angry that they’d let their squabble get this far where insults had been thrown and harsh words ( _brutal_ words) had been spoken with no hope of taking them back.  What had she been thinking, saying something _that_ mean to him?  The way she’d said it had invalidated it, even though it was absolutely true.  She’d wanted him to understand what he was doing to her every time he let himself get hurt.  In the end, she’d ended up hurting him worse than he’d ever hurt himself.  Of course, some vindictive, prideful, _petty_ part of her believed he deserved it because she was _still_ smarting from everything, from their bickering after the first battle to the week of silence to his refusal to admit he’d done anything wrong to his own harsh words.  Needless to say, the whole thing had shaken her to her core, so having him back with the support crew was a good thing.

Somewhat.  “Widow, watch your six.”  Over the communications channel Steve’s voice was stern and it had an authoritarian note to it she’d _never_ heard before.  It was cold and emotionless.  And he was using her codename.  He’d never done that, either.  Even when they’d been barely partners and hardly friends, she’d been “Romanoff”.  Then it had been “Natasha” and now “Nat”.  Never “Widow”.  It sounded wrong and cruel and _distant._   “Widow!”

She snarled in frustration, forcing herself to focus, and turned to put two bullets into the men coming up behind her.  “I see them, Captain.”  Two could play at this game.

“Rumlow, there’s a squadron approaching one block east.”

“We’re on it, Cap.”

Behind them a building was struck with an energy weapon.  People were screaming, rushing onto the already congested streets.  Natasha gritted her teeth, trying to control the chaos, as Rumlow and a few others went off to deal with the next group.  Up ahead she could barely see the tanks, firing at everything and everyone as they rolled through the city.  If she could just get up there and get to them…  “Need an escort for civilians!” she cried over comms.

“That’s a negative,” Steve’s voice replied.  “Hold your position.”

“I have eyes on the main–”

“Hold your position.  We can’t spare anyone.  Iron Man is inbound in fifteen.”

That was just…  _Asshole._   Any sympathy she might have been feeling for him was rapidly dwindling.  He’d been micromanaging her from command the entire engagement thus far, keeping her essentially contained to the evacuation detail when she was far better suited for combat.  Fury had dispatched a larger number of STRIKE commandos this time, so not all of them had participated in last week’s skirmish and were thus inexperienced against the advanced weaponry.  With her arsenal of EMP rounds and grenades, she could strike a serious blow.  But no.  Her _boyfriend_ was being a dick and calling the shots.

She couldn’t cross him, though, no matter how much she wanted to.  That was the truth of it.  Whatever personal problems they were having had to stay out of situation.  She was a soldier in the unit over which he had command, and she had to obey him.  Therefore, she gestured at the panicked people, leading them by the dozens away from the damaged buildings.  “Stay calm!  Stay calm!”  When that group was safe, she headed back down the street, ignoring how the distant sounds of fighting were driving her crazy with the need to participate.  She wondered (not for the first time) if Steve was testing her.  Any other instance and she’d immediately think no, _never,_ but not today.  Not with him hurting and obviously _hating_ as much as he was.  Not with him doing everything he could to limit her participation in this fight.  He had to be doing that on purpose, which meant this _was_ some sort of test.  Or revenge.  That was another thing of which she hadn’t though him capable before.  Either way, all the regret she had for what she’d said (well, not _all_ , but most) was disappearing.

“The lead tank’s down!” Rumlow announced.  An explosion rocked the buildings around them, and Natasha seethed silently as she pushed the civilians further from the engagement zone.  “We’ve got more incoming!”

“Hawkeye?” came Steve’s prompt.

“I see ’em.”  Natasha looked up to the tall buildings on her left where she knew Clint was.  He and a team of snipers had taken roost up there, moving from rooftop to rooftop as necessary both to keep a bird’s eye view of the streets and to rain hellfire from above.  Between their vantage, satellite tracking, and the SHIELD drones fluttering through the streets sending video back to command, Steve had an eye on even more.  God, that pissed her off.  “STRIKE, tank’s turning left.”

“On it.”

“Widow, the building on your ten o’clock’s got heat signatures.”  She could see one of the little drones hovering outside, scanning it.  Steve’s orders were obvious, but he decided to flesh it out like she was a child and in need of an explanation.  “Get everyone inside to safety.  Everyone.  A complete sweep.”

 _Don’t.  He’s baiting you.  Don’t let it get to you._  That was so _fucking_ hard, though.  If she ground her teeth together any harder, they’d crack.  SHIELD support personnel were there to escort her current crop of innocent bystanders out of harm’s way, so she ran in to follow her orders, listening to the roar of the battle and the STRIKE Team doing what it did best and Clint reveling in his vantage like he subtly did sometimes and wondering if anyone would notice if she killed Captain America later.

She was hardly through helping the final cluster of civilians (a little old lady screaming at her in Chinese and a few teenagers who’d been engaged in extracurricular activities if their mortified state of undress was any indication) when Steve’s voice came over the comm link again.  “Widow, two more buildings toward the north end of the street.  I’m reading ten heat signatures in one and another fourteen in the other, including what looks like a cat.”

Natasha heaved a _very_ irritated sigh as she deposited the group of people with the support staff.  She couldn’t keep quiet now.  Military decorum be damned.  “Repeat dispatch, Captain, because I could have sworn you just told me to rescue a cat.”

“That’s affirm.”

Oh, no.  No, no, no.  Not that she had any problems with cats, but _this_ was too far.  She was calling him out.  _Now._   He thought she’d embarrassed him before?  That was going to be _nothing_ compared to this.  “Sir,” she said carefully, trying to unclench her jaw, “don’t you think you’re deploying resources a little poorly?”

The comm line went absolutely silent.  Nobody questioned Steve.  Part of that was because Steve was hardly (if ever) wrong in his tactical decisions.  He was the best there was in running a battle, in making sure everyone was doing the task he or she was best suited for, in orchestrating putting down a threat, containing damage, and protecting innocents all at the same time.  So there was that.  There was also a stigma about openly challenging a commanding officer, particularly in battle.  That was insubordination.

Still, everyone on comms knew _exactly_ what this was.  They’d all worked with Steve and Natasha long enough, seen them fight side by side enough, listened to them banter and flirt while they got the job done together as equals.  And they’d all been listening to the bickering, to them picking at each other, to the tension escalating the entire engagement thus far.

No, this was Black Widow striking back at her boyfriend.

So no one said a thing.  And Steve had the balls to simply respond with, “No.”

She wasn’t going to let that stand.  She went about doing as he’d said, but her mind was squarely on _him_.  She could picture him in the truck just outside the battle zone, hands on his hips with his eyes narrowed and his shoulders set in defiance (and, damn, that image was _not_ going to turn her on right now!).  She could picture that _so clearly_ , and it pissed her off more.  “You don’t think it’s even a _slightly_ questionable decision to have one of your best fighters on evacuation detail?”

“With an aerial threat, the civilians need protection,” he responded.  Aerial threat?  There had been some last time, armored, flying men and battle drones, but so far the skies had been empty aside from SHIELD’s forces.  “You have your orders.”

She really wanted to think he wouldn’t be doing this if the battle hadn’t been going so firmly in their direction.  “Note that I am objecting to these orders.”

“Noted.”

“And I’m doubting the purity of your motivations in giving them.”

“ _Noted._ ”

“And the soundness of your reasoning–”

“Uh, Cap?  Widow?  Can we focus on–”  That was Rumlow of all people, sounding uncomfortable and unhappy like _mom and dad are fighting_ before another explosion rocked the streets.  People were screaming.  “–getting this done?”

“If Captain Rogers wasn’t depriving the team of my aid,” Natasha returned coldly as she kicked in the door of the apartment building, “maybe it already would be.”  Holy shit, this was petulant and unprofessional and ridiculous, but she was too hurt to stop.  “So get on his case.”

“Later!  We’ve got more incoming!  Hawkeye?”

“EMP rounds!  Target the tank!”

She ignored the thrum of battle, _ignored_ how her eyes were stinging, as she called to the civilians throughout the building.  Focusing was too hard.  She was so fundamentally rattled, fighting with Steve like this.  It was like _everything_ was wrong all of the sudden, even worse than before.  The air in her lungs and the guns in her hands and the way her heart was shuddering through every beat.  She was out on the street again before she even realized it, ushering the people to safety.  “Widow, status?”  That was Steve again.  He sounded about as tense and miserable as she felt.  “Status?”

“Hold on,” she snapped, even though the only reason she wasn’t answering was because she didn’t want to talk to him.

He wasn’t willing to do that.  “There are stragglers headed your way.  Is the street clear?”

“I said: hold on!” she shouted, running toward the next building.  “Need to empty the next building and find the cat.”

All pretense of Captain America vanished from Steve’s tone.  “I never once said you needed to find the cat!”

She tipped her head as she charged into the building.  Everything was burning.  Smoke filled the lobby.  Thankfully, those fourteen heat signatures were already down there.  She took a quick count.  “That’s what it sounded like to me,” she replied once she was sure everyone was there.  “Is that what it sounded like to you guys?”

Rollins groaned.  “Jesus Fucking Christ…”

“Luckily,” she gasped, grabbing a little girl gently and lifting her into her arms.  “Someone’s done my oh-so-important job for me.”  There was the feline in question, a tabby, terrified thing held tight by the equally terrified child.  Natasha carried her out just as the flames started to consume the bottom floor.  “We need fire suppression teams here!”

The stragglers Steve had mentioned were coming down the debris-filled road.  Natasha set the child down and stood in front of the civilians, raising her guns and shooting at the incoming terrorists.  For all their advanced tech, they weren’t very well trained, and she was able to pick them off fairly easily.  More and more were coming, though, from a tank at the end of the street that had been knocked out by one of Clint’s EMP arrows.  Steve’s worried voice nattered in her ear.  “Widow, fall back.  There are too many.  Hawkeye, we need some support there!  Widow–”

“I have this!” she snapped furiously, backing the civilians up and emptying her guns.  A car behind them exploded, struck by one of the modified repulsor weapons.  Natasha screamed for everyone to get down, dropping to a crouch to cover the child she’d been carrying.  Fumbling to reload, she watched in fury as another slew of thugs flooded the street.  _I don’t have this._   She’d be damned if she told Steve that, though.  He was yelling something, but she didn’t care to listen to what (and it was hard to anyway with the ringing in her ears from the blast).  She pressed the people back further against other abandoned cars, reaching to her belt for an EMP grenade.  Pulling the pin, she tossed that with perfect accuracy at the soldiers coming.  It went off with a deep thud, and most of their weapons immediately discharged.  Not all, though.  Another car exploded to her left when it was struck with a white pulse of energy, and the impact shuddered through the buildings.  She rolled from cover, firing rapidly, but there were just too many.  _I don’t have this!_

Clint landed on top of an overturned bus to her left.  His bow was singing as he loosed shot after shot.  Natasha stood stiff against her relief, pressing to his side as they quickly and efficiently took out the rest of the men until there were groaning bodies strewn through the street and the only sound was the crackling of fire.

“I need a report,” Steve demanded tersely.  “Someone talk to me.”

Clint shoulders his bow and helped a fallen woman up.  “Situation’s secure, Cap.”

“Get the people out.”

“On it.”

There was a pause.  “Romanoff?”

“Oh, so now it’s Romanoff,” Natasha said, catching her breath hopefully without revealing how winded she was.  “What, were you worried, Rogers?”

Steve’s patience was spent.  “ _Yes_ , I was worried!”

“Maybe you should have had another agent on evacuation detail then.  But, oh right, you ‘can’t spare anyone’.”  She wanted to hit herself.  God, she sounded like a pissed-off teenager, but she just couldn’t stop!  “Great planning there, Cap.”

“Fall back,” he snapped, ignoring the jab.  She stood resolutely, knowing he could see her.  “I said: fall back!”

“The situation is secure.  Permission to join the fight, _sir_ ,” she snidely said.

Steve was seething.  _Seething._   She’d pushed too far, and she knew it.  “Agent Romanoff, you and I are going to be having a discussion when this is done.”

She wasn’t going to be daunted.  “Oh, _yes,_ we are.”

“Alright, that’s it!” Clint roared.  He was at her side again, having left and returned without her noticing because she’d been too busy acting like a baby.  His expression was absolutely furious.  “You two, shut the hell up.  No more.  Stop fighting.  Stop bickering.  Stop _talking_.”  Natasha winced and took an involuntary step back.  She’d never seen Clint this mad.  Over the comm line, Steve was silent as the grave.  “This is the conversation you’re going to be having.  Listen up.  Ready?  ‘Natasha, I’m real sorry.’”  Then his voice when higher, feminine, clearly an impression of her.  “‘Steve, I’m sorry, too!’”  Everyone else snickered or outright laughed.  Natasha felt her face burn hot in embarrassment.  “Then you are going to get a room and screw each other’s brains out and get the fuck over this because I am sick and tired of listening to it.  Got it?”  He was glaring right at her.  “Got it?”  She bobbed her head, horrified and dumbstruck.  “Rogers, I can’t hear you nod.  Are you reading me, sir?”

Steve had no chance to answer.  Something loud streaked overhead, just above the tops of the buildings.  A single thought raced through Natasha’s mind.  _Aerial threat._   “Get down!” she screamed.

There was no time.  The enemy drones blasted the street.  Natasha pulled the little girl against her, tucking herself to the car as bullets rained down on them.  The street was peppered with shots, asphalt flying.  The abandoned vehicles shook with the onslaught.  Natasha covered her head and the head of the child holding the cat as a car window burst above them, showering them with glass.  It went on forever, it seemed, the drones laying waste to the area.

And when it was over, she looked up just in time to see them head, uninhibited and unstoppable, toward the southern districts.  To where the command center was.  _Steve._   Practically shaking with fear, she scrambled to her feet.  “Cap, do you read me?”  There was static.  _What the hell?_   “Rogers, come in.”  Garbled responses buzzed in her ear, but she couldn’t make them out.  “Does anyone copy?”

“Ugh… me.”  Clint scrambled out from under some debris.  A cut across his temple was bleeding sluggishly, and he was grimacing.  Immediately Natasha went to him, helping him to his feet.  He couldn’t put any weight on his right leg.  “Twisted it up bad.”

“Romanoff, come in!”

That was Rumlow.  She turned to the other end of the street, which was almost entirely filled with shadows and smoke at this point.  “I’m here.  Barton and I are alright.”

“They flushed down the snipers,” the other man reported, “and they’re headed to command.  Seems they got wise to the whole EMP thing.  We got word they detonated one near command, but that’s all we know.  We’ve lost comm with Rogers.”

Their enemies had gotten wise as to where they were the most vulnerable, as to who was calling the shots and where.  They were trying to take out their brain, in effect.  _Her heart._   With the snipers pushed off the rooftops, there was no way to stop them.  And there was no way to warn Steve or anyone at command.  Though they probably knew.  Probably. _But if the EMP took out everything…_

She was running without a second thought.  “Wait, Nat!” Clint shouted.  “Nat!”

“Get the people out!” she barked over her shoulder.  She jumped onto a tipped car and leapt down to the other side.  Forcing all the speed she could out of herself, she sprinted like the wind, legs pumping, heart pounding, terror driving her faster and faster.  _Steve’s in danger._   That was all she could think, all she could feel.  Fear and barely restrained panic.  _Steve’s in danger.  Steve’s in danger._   She turned the corner, running across a field of debris in the next intersection.  The sounds of the STRIKE Team dealing with the tanks were thunderous now, and she could see the advanced weapons blast at buildings.  “Do you have this?” she gasped over comms.  Rumlow didn’t respond right away.  She caught a glimpse of the STRIKE Team further down the street.  Some of the snipers had abandoned their long-range rifles, standing closer to her with RPG launchers and handguns.  They were fighting like mad.  She snatched up a dropped rifle and raced across the street.  “Rumlow!”

“Yeah,” he gasped.  “We have this!  Rollins, Ramirez, go with–”

“No,” she snapped.  She darted through the fray, dodging bolts of energy and bullets and the wreckage being tossed about.  “No!  You need everyone here!”  That was arguable.  Despite the chaos, things seemed to be under control.  She couldn’t think, couldn’t risk it.  If anything else went wrong, they couldn’t spare anyone to help her.  Besides, if she could just get up to where the snipers had been…

“Romanoff, we can–”

She ignored him, spotting one of the largest towers atop which Clint’s men had stationed.  It was smoking up there – _the snipers were flushed out_ – but she didn’t let that stop her.  The building was tall enough that she’d be able to see _everything._

And if she hurried, she could take out the drones.

There wasn’t time to question her plan.  She burst through the lobby, rushing to the elevator.  It was probably a miracle they were still operable.  “I need status on the drones,” she called as she checked the SR-25 rifle for rounds.  It was fully loaded.  “Someone copy?”

A voice she didn’t quite recognize – one of the snipers – responded.  “Command’s evacuating, I think.  The drones are on them.”

Someone else continued.  “They’re trying to return fire.  One of the STRIKE units is falling back.  I think they–”

“Is Rogers clear?”

“Romanoff–”

“Nat, where are you?”

“Is Cap clear?” she demanded again as the elevator deposited her on the top floor.  Not that she’d stop if he was.  But, God, she was _terrified._   “Is he?”

“Unconfirmed.”  She wanted to scream.  Steve couldn’t run with his leg the way it was.  He wouldn’t be able to fight that well, either.  And, knowing him, if he’d survived the first strike – _please God of course he survived he had to please please please –_ that’d be _exactly_ what he’d do.  He’d stay to help protect people.  Christ, he hadn’t even brought his shield.  She had to get those drones out of the sky.  _She had to._

“What the hell are you doing, Nat?” Clint barked.  “Nat!”

She burst onto the roof.  A huge structure that had once supported a neon sign was ablaze, sending smoke billowing into the early morning sky.  Embers danced and drifted all over, and the heat was unbearable.  Natasha dove, barely avoiding a flaming piece of wreckage careening down on her.  Shivering with the close call, she frantically glanced around, searching for the drones over the city.  With all the smoke and the poor light, it was hard to see anything for a moment.  Then…

 _There._   Right over where the mobile command center had been stationed.  There were four of them, shooting madly into the city below.  Natasha gritted her teeth, swinging the sniper rifle up.  She dropped to her belly, sighting down the scope, finger light on the trigger.  This wasn’t her forte necessarily, and she didn’t have the aptitude for it that Clint did.  Still, she was no slouch.  She breathed out, forcing calm to come over her no matter how rattled she was.  She could see quite a bit through the scope, but she refused to look at anything other than the drones.  The command center was returning fire, and a few missiles careened toward the aircraft tormenting them from the streets below.  They all missed.  She narrowed her gaze and aimed at one drone.  They weren’t very big, only large enough to carry their weapons, perhaps the size of a man.  Concentrating completely, she pulled the trigger.

One went down.  Giving a hard, little grin, she quickly recovered from the large gun’s recoil and aimed for the next one.  _You’re not shooting at the man I love._   Squeezing the trigger again, her shot went wide.  She tried not to get frustrated, breathing deeply and going loose and calm.  Her next strike hit hard, and the damaged drone fell from the sky.  _That’s two._

A crackle resounded in her ear.  “…Romanoff… repeat: fall…  Copy?”

That sounded like Steve’s voice.  It was distorted and distant.  The EMP was obviously still interfering with communications.  She pulled her face away from the scope, pressing her hand to her ear.  “Steve?”

“Not…  We need–”  The transmission went in and out, but she was fairly sure that was him.  _He’s alive._   Despite everything, that left her weak with relief.  _He’s alright._

She gathered herself quickly, though, because from the street below, one of the tanks had noticed her.  There was a reason the snipers had been flushed from this location, after all.  She scrambled away, trying to find another vantage.  A distant explosion by the command center drew her attention once more, and she growled in the back of her throat, running to the other end of the roof.  She was out in the open now, but she had a clear shot, and she was _not_ losing it.  She settled back down rapidly, sighting again, and squeezing off another shot.  The third drone exploded, and she shifted to the final one.

Suddenly Steve’s voice broke through, loud and clear.  There was gunfire in the background.  Chaos.  He was in trouble.  “Natasha!  We can handle this!  You’re in the open and they’re–”

“I have this,” she insisted.  “I just need another second.”

“There’s no time!  Back off!  _That’s an order!_ ”

She had the drone in her sights.  One more second…  “I can take it out.”

“ _Get out of there!_ ”

She took the shot.  The bullet shot forward hundreds of yards and hit the drone firing on the place Steve was.  Destroying the threat to Steve.  _Saving him._

There was no time to be relieved or proud of that, though.  The warnings she hadn’t heeded resulted in the outcome she hadn’t let stop her.  There was a roar overhead – _more drones_ – and a roar below – _the tanks_ – and Steve was screaming in her ear and her heart stopped and her lungs seized and the world exploded all around her when the weapons from their enemies pounded into the building.  The roof disintegrated.  Everything turned into a blur of fire and motion as she fell.  The gun flew from her suddenly limp fingers.  The air rushed from her chest.  The thoughts were scorched from her head save one: _I’m so, so sorry._

Well, two.  _I love you._

…Three.  _What the hell?_   She was slammed to the side, her violent descent sharply stopped as something (two somethings) strong and _metallic_ curled around her.  Her brain belatedly realized she’d been caught.  _Someone had caught her._

She sucked in a desperate breath of clean, cool air and opened eyes she’d squeezed shut to see red and gold surrounding her.  Smooth, sleek plating.  And glowing blue eyes.  “Hey.  Sorry I’m late.”  _Stark._   She could have sobbed her relief.  Behind them the building collapsed, burning and breaking apart, but she was alright.  She was safe.  Stark had her.

She floated in that a moment, letting everything fall from her heart and her head.  He was zooming higher, flying away, jetting past where the STRIKE Team had mostly destroyed the tanks to where SHIELD had secured the command center.  There was damage everywhere, scorched rubble and destroyed equipment, but people seemed to be safe.  As Tony slowly descended, she instantly saw Steve, safe and untouched and entirely hale, limping closer.  _Oh, shit…_ She closed her eyes against a mounting headache.  “So…”  Tony’s voice was annoyingly light.  “What’s this I hear about you and Rogers fighting?  Because he looks like he’s ready to–”

She managed to find her feet and her voice.  “Shut up, Stark.”

Tony’s face was hidden behind the suit’s helmet, but she could hear his scowl.  “Some thanks I get.”  He shot up into the air again, heading back to finish up the battle.

Steve’s eyes were positively flashing as they stood face to face.  Smoke wafted around them, and the battle wasn’t over yet so soldiers and SHIELD personnel were rushing about.  They were still, though, staring at each other.  He looked…  Well, amazing.  Chest heaving slightly, hair askew, eyes bright blue and furious, tense and blazing hot and…  And torn between wanting to run to her and hold her and never let her go and murdering her himself.  She knew how that felt because she felt _exactly_ the same.  “You and I,” he said lowly, “are still having a discussion when this over.”

She glared at him.  _Bring it._

* * *

It was a damn good thing they ended up on separate quinjets back to the helicarrier.  She couldn’t stand the sight of Steve right now.  She was livid, fuming, glaring into the shadows in the back of the jet.  Furious with him and furious with herself and furious with _everything._   Sure, the mission had been successful.  There’d been a heaping ton of property damage again but no civilian casualties.  A few members of the STRIKE Team had been knocked around, but everyone was alive and fairly well and pretty happy.

_Not her._

No one was coming near her.  _No one._   Not even Clint, who’d sprained his knee quite badly and had something of a mild concussion.  He was fine, though, and sitting down the bench from her a little.  She could feel him (and everyone else for that matter) staring at her, wondering and questioning and probably whispering.  She couldn’t care less.  She was so darkly angry, so guilty and ashamed and miserably embarrassed, that it was hard to care about sinking any lower.  She should have been better than to let her emotions control her.  She shouldn’t have fought with Steve over comms.  She should have let him have his way, suffered silently and then gone after him later.  She should have not acted like a childish brat.  She shouldn’t have tried to save him, either, but she hadn’t even thought about stopping, hadn’t even considered otherwise, putting herself in danger (maybe needlessly?  _No.  Definitely not!_ ) to ensure he’d be okay.  The irony was _not_ lost on her.

She’d never felt so off her game, so inadequate, and she wanted to erase everything back to the moment after the first attack when he’d broken his leg and she’d given him shit about it.  The terrible things they’d said to each other.  The cold silences and disrespectful glances.  How they’d treated each other.  This was their first real fight, and she was starting to fear it would tear them apart for good.

The jet landed in the hanger of the helicarrier.  The massive ship was aloft over the South China Sea, aglow with the cheery light of a new day, and she despised every part of that.  As the pilots powered everything down, she sat stiffly, unmoving and mostly unblinking and barely breathing, waiting until the absolute last second to exit the plane.  Everyone else passed, the other members of the STRIKE Team, the techs who’d been with the command center, even the pilots.  She waited until they were all gone.

Clint waited with her.  He knew what was up, what she was doing, and he rolled his eyes a little.  “Come on.”

And, of course, Steve was waiting _for_ her.  He stood in between their jet and his.  A couple other aircraft were landing as well, and everywhere people were rushing about.  Tony was with him.  And Rumlow and Rollins.  Add Fury in and it would be a regular firing squad.  Wasn’t that a happy thought.

Steve looked like she felt.  Furious and relieved and horrified, with no clear victory in the battle among the three.  He was thrumming with anxiety and anger.  She could practically see it, this dark, desperate glimmer to his eyes, the way his muscles were bunched up and tensed beneath the black standard issue SHIELD jacket he was wearing over his blue Oxford, the way even his thighs seemed locked and unmovable under his jeans.  He was standing surprisingly stiffly despite the cast, hardly leaning on the one crutch he had.  Rumlow was handing him a few tablets, and he signed off on whatever was on there.  “Thanks, Cap.”

“Good job out there today,” Steve said tautly.  He was really out of sorts to be talking like that.  She knew how much he didn’t care for Rumlow, but usually he was better at hiding it.

Rumlow gave Natasha a snide look.  “Well, we got it done, despite our issues.”  She narrowed her eyes into a steely stare, but Rumlow was feeling fairly bold, staring right back.  Still, he was smart enough not to provoke anyone or start anything more.  “Widow,” he said, tipping his head toward her as he walked away, Rollins on his heels.

A moment passed, filled with nothing but uncomfortable silence.  Steve and Natasha were staring at each other, an unspoken challenge practically crackling between them.  And Clint and Tony were unhappily watching.  “So…” Clint said around a sigh.  “How’s New York been, Stark?”

Tony appeared surprised by the question, probably not so much by its topic but that Clint was even trying to diffuse a situation that was clearly headed toward disaster.  “New York’s been fine, Barton.  Thanks for asking.”

“Cold?”

“Well, it’s February.”

“You and Potts have any plans for Valentine’s?”

“Oh, not much.  You know, never much cared for it.  Buy Pepper some flowers.  Nice dinner, maybe.  You?”

“Eh.”

Steve was staring at her.  He’d never looked away once, and he’d never looked at her before _like this_.  “Tony, would you mind helping Clint to medical?”

Stark’s eyes widened, but he didn’t dare cross Steve.  Not with the feral, fiery shine of his eyes and the set of his jaw and that tautness radiating from every muscle in his body.  Natasha hated to say it ( _hated_ ), but she’d never been more attracted to him.  Of course, she’d never been angrier and more hurt and ashamed, too, so that somewhat counteracted the heat pooling in her core (somewhat).  “Uh… sure,” Tony said.  “Lean on me, Legolas.”  For once, Clint didn’t argue or deny.  He was just as eager to vacate the premises as Tony was, so he put his soot-streaked arm around Tony’s neck and let the other man take his weight off his bad knee.  “Or would you prefer Cupid?  Considering.”

“Christ, Stark, after the week I’ve had…”  Clint muttered.  He wasn’t subtle, looking over his shoulder with that expression he reserved for his kids when they were acting, well, like _children._   “That’s just fine.  I’ll shoot both of them in the ass with an arrow of _kiss and freaking make up already._ ”

Natasha didn’t acknowledge that with so much as a glance, and Clint grumbled his way out of the hangar bay.  She stared at Steve, and this silent, vicious battle of wills between them continued undisturbed for another couple of long moments.  There was something else in his eyes now.  _Hunger._   She was doing the same thing to him that he was doing to her.  God, that felt _ridiculously_ rewarding.  “We doing this now?” she coolly taunted.  “Having your discussion?”

“Damn right,” Steve returned evenly.

She arched an eyebrow.  “Here?”

“Well, it’d only be fair,” he replied, “given how you publically shamed me last time.”

Her eyes flashed and her jaw clenched and she thought yet again for a second she might hit him.  She didn’t, though.  Talk about public shaming.  “It’s hard to be called out when you make a mistake.  Poor baby.  Did your ego get bruised?”  She went in for the kill.  “That’s what you get when you micromanage me like a vengeful asshole.  Next time: keep your orders to yourself.  You don’t tell me what to do, not like that.”

Now _his_ eyes flashed.  Before she even knew what was happening, he was grabbing her arm.  His fingers were like iron around her wrist, and he was dragging her across the bay.  He was quick and powerful despite his leg and the crutch, yanking her firmly (and honestly somewhat violently) through the throng of people.  She flushed with embarrassment anew, struggling to keep up so it didn’t look so obvious that she was being summarily hauled off by her boyfriend.  On the opposite side of the busy area, there were a few supply closets.  He made his way to one, not stopping, not letting her go.  He flung the door open, pushed her inside, and slammed it shut behind him.

The lights flickered on, bright and harshly fluorescent.  The boxy room was fully stocked and loaded with items.  The metal shelving units lining the three walls were loaded with cases.  There were orange cones stacked in one corner, vests, goggles, and ear protection for the techs who worked here, other crates loaded with who knew what, cleaning supplies, and materials probably meant to help cordon off areas of the bay.  Yellow warning tape and red signs and other things of the like.  But not much else.

Except for the two of them and the culmination of this disaster that had been building all week.  As trite as it was, it was like a train wreck, and there was no way to stop it, no way even to look away.  She knew this was where it was going to end, one way or another.  If she hadn’t been so furious, the mere thought would have made her _cry_.

He was seething, blocking the door and making a show of it.  “You follow my orders,” he declared like he was daring her to argue.  “When I’m in command, you need to follow me.  You _of all people_ need to follow me.  We’re a team out there, not just a bunch of rogue spies and soldiers doing their own thing.  There’s a chain of command for a reason, and if there’s a weak link in that, it all comes apart and–”

“Oh, come off it, Steve!” she snapped.  She took a step closer, daring _him_ to keep going.  “Give up the for-the-good-of-the-team bullshit!  This had _nothing_ to do with you being in command!”

“Fury put me in charge.”

“Then act like it next time.  You were trying to get back at me any way you could, and you know it.  Don’t pretend like it was some noble thing, or the right thing to do, or some moment of tactical genius.  You were pissed off and letting everyone know it!”

He seemed like he was going to admit that, but he didn’t.  That wink of weakness vanished, and he donned a professional mask again.  “I’m putting you on report.”

That came out of nowhere.  “What?”

“You heard me.  You were openly disrespectful and openly insubordinate.  You disobeyed direct orders.”  He shook his head.  “I’m putting you on report.”

The pit of her stomach dropped out.  And it wasn’t so much that he was threatening to have her reprimanded, to tighten up supervision of her and treat her like a misbehaving junior officer.  She’d bucked up against authority once or twice before.  It was the fact that _he_ was doing this.  That he was pulling rank on her.  That he was sinking so low as to use this as a weapon.  _Their_ jobs.  Throughout everything, even when he had been in charge before, he’d always treated her as an absolute equal.  This was humiliating and belittling.  “You can’t do that.”

He tightened his jaw and stood taller.  “Watch me.  You dragged our problems into our jobs last time, so now–”

“You get to do the same, only you go so fucking low as to hide behind the fact you outrank me?  Disgusting.”

He leaned back, shame filling his gaze before he blinked it away.  There was spite there of which she’d never dreamed him capable, and she could have screamed for the fake, tiny smirk curling the edge of his mouth.  “You know, it’s pretty damn ironic.  It didn’t escape my notice what you did back there.”

She knew _exactly_ to what he was referring.  But she could play dumb.  “What did I do, Rogers?  Huh?”

“Throw yourself needlessly into the line of fire to save me.”

For some reason, that made the shame so much worse.  She stepped closer.  “Hurts, doesn’t it?  Hurts not knowing if I was okay.  Hurts knowing you couldn’t stop me.”

His expression softened, and pain once more shone bright in his eyes.  The pain of being afraid for her.  The pain of imagining _losing_ her.  Was _he_ realizing that _she_ was right?  Inexplicably the thought was deliciously empowering and repulsively awful at the same time.  He heaved a shuddering breath.  “Goddamn it, Nat, is that why you did it?  To prove a point?”

No.  That hadn’t been why.  Truth be told, that thought had never even so much as crossed her mind.  And she knew he saw that, the way her face softened ever so slightly, the way she dropped her eyes.  So there was no sense in lying.  “No.”

He was angry enough to keep going, even if she’d shriveled a bit in submission.  “So now _you_ know.  It’s not so easy to just stand there and let it happen, is it?  It’s not easy to watch the person you love most in this world be in danger and know there isn’t a damn thing you can do.  _Is it?”_

His words stirred too many emotions inside her, the fear she felt every time Steve was hurt and the fear she’d felt back there when those drones had come after him.  The bitter, bitter realization that _he_ was _right._   She’d known that, felt it creep around her thoughts since the battle, but she hadn’t been able to face it until now.  And it hurt.  Him gloating (well, he wasn’t really gloating, and she knew that, but still) was making it so much worse.  _So much worse_.  And she was so angry she just couldn’t hold it in.  “Fuck you, Rogers.”

He flinched.  It wasn’t just what she’d said, although that ( _again_ ) was pretty bad.  It was how she’d said it.  A low hiss with nothing but heat and vitriol.  His chin quivered for an instant, though whether in hurt or in anger she couldn’t say.  The anger was what won out.  “Yeah.  Well, that seems to be the only thing you want me around for.”

That was it.  _That was it._

Before she even knew what she was doing, she _slapped_ him.  Hard.  _Really_ hard.  The impact of her palm to his cheek was loud, echoing through the supply room like a crack of lightning.  He was surprised enough that the blow actually ripped his face to the side and he staggered half a step back, dropping his crutch and scrambling for his balance.  He turned back to her, face red, eyes wide.  “You hit me.”

Her hand was _throbbing_.  She glared at him through tears.  “Yeah.”

“Jesus.”  He rubbed at his face, completely shocked.  Mind blown, it seemed.  Then he set his jaw and turned his own glare on her, one that would have cowed anyone.  Not her.  _Not right now._ “You don’t hit me.”

She smirked.  “You don’t tell me what to do.”

There was a wink of pure rage in his gaze, and then he was in her face, looming over her, using _every inch_ of height and _every pound_ of muscle he had on her to threaten her.  “Say you’re sorry.”

“No.”

“Say it.”

_“Fuck you.”_

He grabbed for her shoulders, and she swung again, harder this time, faster.  Her hand hit nothing because he caught it, but still she pushed, her whole body struggling against his strength.  His eyes were alive, so heady with anger and desire _._   And she felt the same way.  _This_ had been building and building, and now it was pulsing through her, delicious and dark and amazing _._   She’d never seen him like this, open and raw and throbbing, and she’d _never been so turned on_.  His plush lips pulled back from his teeth.  The flush on his cheeks.  His smoldering eyes searching hers.  The heat of his hard body and the strength of his grip.  The fire between them.  The push and pull and power.  Some kind of madness.  It was _indescribable._

She needed him more than she’d ever needed _anything._ “Fuck me,” she whimpered.

And _that_ was it.

Any doubt there might have been that he wasn’t as absolutely desperate for it as she was died the second he kissed her.  It wasn’t a kiss so much as it was a claim, hot and open-mouthed and frantic.  Dominating.  He didn’t let go of her wrist, wrapping her arm around her back and holding it there, and she squeaked in surprise, an undignified whine of a thing that was swallowed completely by his mouth.  He devoured her with ferocity he normally didn’t possess, tongue plunging inside her mouth and exploring like he was afraid this could be the last time he could taste her.  Only when he was certain she was about to pass out (and she _was_ about to pass out, head swimming and heart pounding and lungs burning) did he pull back so she could take a breath.

She took one and twisted, trying to free herself, but his fingers only tightened further.  His other hand went to the mass of her hair, tangling up in it and yanking her head back.  She gasped, pain blurred completely by the sheer anticipation, struggling uselessly as his lips attacked her throat.  She couldn’t see, her eyes forced upward, so there was only the unbearable sensation of him planting fast, harsh kisses down her throat.  He went to the particularly sensitive spot just above her pulse point and sucked hard there, but – _God, that feels good_ – she was too angry to succumb to how she wanted to melt.  He didn’t get to hold her like this and force her to submit to him (to hell with the fact that she’d practically begged him to make her).  He didn’t let go of her hair, driving her back across the room, his size and stature (and the sweet pressure of his mouth on her neck) giving her no choice.  She stumbled and staggered until her back hit the supply shelf with a rattle.  The collision was hard enough that things fell, clattering to the floor, and he wedged his knee right between her legs.

Before she could even think to touch him, he snatched her other wrist.  Now he pinned them both up against the edge of one of the shelves, pressing them there.  She moaned in spite of herself, because this went straight to her core.  He was always so damn careful when they had sex, always afraid of losing control of his strength and hurting her no matter how many times she coaxed and comforted and promised him he wouldn’t.  Well, now he _was_ hurting her, just enough for it to feel incredible.  The war between being powerless and defiant was electrifying.  She shivered when his hips jutted forcefully against hers, and her eyes readily rolled right back into her head.  Again she wriggled but to no avail.  His hand was so big and hers so much smaller that he was able to catch both her wrists in his grip, and his other fingers went to her chin, grasping it firmly and pulling her face to his.  “Say you’re sorry,” he hissed, lips ghosting over hers, hot and tantalizing.  “ _Say it._ ”

She kissed him instead, demanding entry, bruising and forceful.  It was deep and wet, battling tongues and teeth.  She sucked his lower lip into her mouth, biting none too gently, and he shoved her back into the shelves again hard enough to knock more things down.  “Come on,” he snarled before taking her mouth again.  Natasha squirmed when his knee pushed hard up between her legs, and she had to fight not to let the pleasure reach her face.  “Say you’re sorry!”

“No!”  Refusal burned bright in her eyes.  Her body throbbed with desperation, throbbed with need, with the burning rush of arousal.  “You say it!”

The stern set of his jaw indicated just how likely that was to happen.  With his free hand, he fumbled for the zipper of her uniform and yanked it down.

She’d had enough of being at his mercy.  She twisted her wrists, turning them both together to dislocate his hold.  Before he could grab for her again, she curled her fingers in his jacket and spun him.  He gave a startled cry, staggering a little with his weight abruptly shifting onto his bad leg, but she didn’t stop, pushing him into the shelves now.  She did it hard enough that they actually dented and crumpled, and more things tumbled to the floor.  She didn’t let the noise of it stop her, reaching for his jacket and wrenching it from his shoulders.  It didn’t come off all the way, getting his arms tangled up in the sleeves – _good_ – and she drove him back again into the poor storage racks.  An entire shelf came down, bending and breaking as he scrambled to steady himself.  She didn’t give him the chance, grabbing his shirt and ripping it open.  Buttons went flying, scattering through the room, and her mouth went straight to the expanse of perfect skin before her.  She kissed hard at his throat, dragging her teeth over his Adam’s apple, going for the places she knew drove him wild.  Her lips attached to the skin of his collarbone, sucking and then licking the mark she’d left, and her hands went to the rippling muscles of his abdomen, staking her claim with her nails.  She drove her hips down onto his.  Now he was the one who was squirming uselessly, hands trapped behind him, panting hard and shaking with equal parts anger and arousal.  She painted a flurry of quick, almost harsh kisses on his chest, leaving his pecs and abs wet and glistening.  Then she pinned him back into the breaking shelves with a hand on his sternum, her other undoing his belt.

Even with him trying to push her back (and pull her closer at once – it was a crazy dichotomy of driving her off with his hips and hooking her closer with a leg planted around hers) it didn’t take much to get his jeans open, to unbutton them and unzip them and get a hand on him.  He was achingly hard.  And hot.  And furious.  “No,” he groaned.  “You don’t get to…”  She swiped her hand up from the base of his erection as much as she could in the confines of his (now tight) pants, squeezing and twisting as she did.  “ _Mother of God._ ”

“You gonna say it now?” she hissed against his shoulder.  “Tell me how wrong you are?”  She sunk her teeth in there, determined to mark him like she never had before so that he’d know he was hers and he had _no right_ to treat her like he had been.  She ran her thumb over the tip of his manhood through his boxers, teasing the sensitive places there, feeling him twitch and enjoying immensely the little moans he was trying to keep quiet.  “Tell me.”  She squeezed hard, stroked harder, watching his eyes flash in frustration.  _“Tell me.”_

“Get off me,” he snapped.

“Make me,” she replied.

He made her.  He finally got his wits about him enough to untangle his arms, whipping his left up to send his jacket flying.  It happened so fast that she couldn’t stop him.  He grabbed her rear, lifting her against him so firmly it punched a cry from her lips.  She had no choice but to wrap her arms around him and her legs around his hips as he carried her across the room, staggering with his bad leg but refusing to fall.  He slammed her into the wall beside a stack of crates.  She yelped again, flailing, knocking the supply cases to the side as she reached for something to brace herself.  He didn’t bother with the zipper this time, hands harsh and directed as he ripped her uniform wide open.  _That_ was like a bolt of molten lightning inside her.  She couldn’t catch her breath as he yanked it down behind her, pulling it straight off her arms, and she couldn’t do anything but hold on to him as he kissed her, thrusting up into her.  The layers of clothing between them were thick and torturous and they needed to be removed _now_.  But he didn’t let her.  He plunged his tongue inside her mouth, insistent and undeniable and fairly well in time with his hips moving up into her.  This alone was _too much_ and she fucking _hated him_ for torturing her and making her feel so damn helpless and afraid because if she ever lost him – _if she_ _ever lost him_ – she’d be nothing and no one and– _“Please, please, please…”_

He growled, pinning her against the wall, holding her up like she weighed nothing.  Though he didn’t tend to be rough with her, there _were_ moments here and there where she got a taste of it.  Sex up against a wall with him like this was incredible, how he could manhandle her and leave her completely at his control, how he could support her and drive her mad like this and never break a sweat.  He was sweating now and breathing hard, pulling her bra straps off her shoulders, dragging the garment down like if he didn’t get his hands on her right now he might go mad (she certainly knew she would).  With her breasts bared, her nipples went stiff and peaked the moment the cold air of the room touched them.  That was a fleeting sensation, though, because he lifted her further and his mouth sealed over one and his fingers closed upon the other.

Normally he took his time with her.  She’d taught him well what she liked, what made her pant and purr, what made her body sing, and he was nothing if not a tender, generous lover.  He worshipped her selflessly and with so much attention to detail, paying the utmost respect to every part of her just as he did when he sketched something he found enchanting and beautiful.  This, though…  This was wild and wanton.  Rough and unrestrained.  He was doing what _he_ wanted to, treating her pleasure as incidental to his desires for once, and to be at the behest of all that power…  She cried out hoarsely when he sucked hard, teeth grazing over her sensitive nipple, pinching and plucking and rolling the other between his fingers.  The pleasure shocked its way down her body, right between her legs, and she ached with emptiness.

He teased more, dragging his tongue to the other side and lavishing the same attention there, leaving the first nipple taut and tortured by the cold again and sudden neglect.  Natasha whimpered, threading her hands into his hair and holding tight.  She tried in vain to push him away, push him away because she was so angry with him and hold him close because wanted him so badly she couldn’t think straight and when his hand snaked its way down the front of her uniform to the top of her panties, she cursed and admitted it.  “I hate you,” she gasped, throwing her head back into the wall with a thud.  The sheetrock dented more – she couldn’t make her brain work enough to give a damn, not with his finger wriggling into her underwear, not with his mouth teasing the undersides of her breasts.  He pushed up again, driving her higher and his hand down lower.  “I hate you so much.  You can’t keep doing this to me!”

“Doing what?” he taunted lasciviously.  “Doing what, Nat?”

His finger finally got where she needed it, sliding inside her, long and thick and curling, and she choked out a cry.  “You – I – you–”

“You know what you did to me?  Huh?”

“No!”  She tossed her head, unable to take his teasing.

“You hurt me,” he hissed, pushing his hand entirely into her underwear now, palm pressing up against her right where she was the most sensitive.  Her vision went white, and she wailed a soft, keening thing.  She dug the heels of her boots into his ass, pushing down for better leverage to grind down on his hand.  His jeans slid off his hips, and she could feel more and more of his hardness where it was trailing wetness on her inner thigh.  His voice shook.  “You hurt me!”

She hardly had it within herself to speak, especially not when he drove his finger deeper, stroking inside.  Her release was building and building, that familiar tightening in the depths of her, but she fought it because _he couldn’t have it._   He couldn’t take it.  He couldn’t do this to her.  “You can’t do this to me!”

He refused to let her go, though, a second finger joining the first, thrusting in her slow, hard, deep.  She sobbed through the waves of pleasure when his thumb slid between her folds, caressing with a pointed purpose.  _No._   This was a war between them, him taking and her holding back, each fighting for dominance, and it felt almost cataclysmic.  It wasn’t just the pressing call of her climax.  The earth would surely shatter if she _let him win._

There wasn’t much she could do, though.  He had her exactly where he wanted her, and there was no escape.  And it took next to nothing, his mouth sealing over one of her nipples again and his fingers probing deep and his thumb pressing hard, for him to bring her right to the edge.

But he didn’t push her over.  No.  _He_ _held her there._   Natasha cried out in frustrated misery when he stopped it all.  Her hips undulated of their own accord, so desperately seeking release now, wanting more than anything to give it to him, but it was suddenly out of reach.  “You bastard,” she whined, shuddering and suffering.  “I hate you, I hate you, what’re you–”

“You want to come, huh?”  _Holy shit._   He’d _never_ talked like that before.  His eyes were dark, his lips kiss-swollen, his stature nothing but confrontational as he held her completely still against the wall.  His voice was a low rumble against her cheek.  “Not sure you deserve it.”  There was a deep, sensuous aspect to his tone, but it wasn’t entirely teasing.

Suddenly she wanted to cry again.  “You bas–”  He kissed her hard, demanding submission again, before pulling his hand away completely.  She keened at the sudden emptiness, but she didn’t have much time to process that before he was forcing her around.  _Oh, God._   His hands felt huge and unstoppable as he pulled her uniform down to her knees, and she couldn’t help but bend over further and spread her legs to him.  He fumbled a second more, likely getting his own pants down, flinging his shirt off if the blur of blue to her left was any indication, before pushing inside her with one long, inexorable thrust.

She could have died, it felt so good.  Every nerve in her body had been craving this like mad for days, and it was fulfilling and amazing and wondrous and so damn intense she couldn’t help but cry out.  He groaned behind her, holding her hips and keeping them both still like he was the one trying to stay in control now.  His fingertips were pressing in hard, and she could imagine the bruises forming on her skin.  He could mark her in ways she couldn’t touch him, and that frustrated and irritated her further until she was wriggling impatiently against him.  “Do it,” she ordered.  “Come on!”

He growled again, an animalistic thing from deep in his chest, in a warning.  Then he started to move, hard and rough, rougher than he’d ever been before.  Natasha winced, the unbearable pressure inside her building again, and she pushed back for every one of his thrusts forward.  She planted her hands on the dented, crumbling drywall of the store room, and he pressed over her, covering her hands with his and holding her there.  She moaned, panting, angling her face back for a kiss he eagerly gave her.  This one wasn’t as frantic, not so much a battle, and his desperate, driving motions slowed as he relaxed.  He brought her hands away from the wall, bowing her back almost, and she reached behind to fist his hair and keep his mouth to hers.  His breath was a fast, damp blast against her lips, and from this angle, the way he felt inside was too much.  The hot, thick, slide of him, how deep he was, how every movement rocked her to her core.  He wrapped an arm beneath her breasts, the other clasping her head to his, holding her this way, gritting his teeth into her mouth.  She was so close already, tormented from his touch before.  She knew she wasn’t going to last like this.

However, after what he’d done, there was definitely no way she was letting go first.

Against mounting pleasure, that seemed a desperate dream, and it got even more so when his fingers went right down to the junction of her legs.  Her wits were barely about her, but she pulled her hand free, curling her nails into his wrist and pushing him away.  _No._   He wasn’t getting his way.  She was not going to let him control this anymore.  She _couldn’t_ let that happen.

So she didn’t.  He was so caught up in the moment that on his next thrust, she twisted and hip checked him even though that was nearly unbearable for the fact that _he wasn’t inside her anymore_.  Her move had the desired effect, though, because it knocked him off balance just enough to break his stance.  She moved like lightning.  He was stronger, but she’d always been faster and more agile.  When she twisted, he staggered, and the next thing he knew, her thighs were around his torso and all of her weight was on his bad leg.  Her heel banged into his cast, and he cried out, losing his grip on her.  She forced him back, clinging hard with her legs around his hip and throwing herself onto him.  He staggered, smashing a couple of crates as he did, trying to regain his footing but it was too late.  Down he went into the mess of fallen supplies, landing on his rear with a grunt, and she pushed him the rest of the way.

It was ridiculously satisfying to see him sprawled on his back, mostly naked with his pants at his knees and his shirt gone, breathing heavily, the haze of pleasure slow to recede from his eyes.  She stood over him, kicking off her boots and peeling the rest of her uniform off in record time.  She gave a cold, feral grin.  “My, how the tables have turned.”

He propped himself up on his elbows and tried to skitter back, but that wasn’t happening.  He couldn’t do it fast enough with his leg the way it was, and she was on him in an instant.  He scrambled to grab her and push her off, but, again, she used her speed (and her daring) to her advantage.  She yanked his jeans down as far as she could, down to the top of his cast, and pinned his hips to the cold, unforgiving floor.  “You think you’re the only one who was hurt?” she seethed, dropping her head to his groin where he was still miserably hard.  He gasped, shivering when she touched him.  “You think you’re the only one who’s upset?  You have another think coming, Rogers.”

“Nat–”

“You hurt me!”

“Nat, I–”

She didn’t let him finish, unceremoniously taking him in her mouth.  He immediately bucked up, too close to the edge, but she was ready.  She’d done this to him enough times to know exactly how to drive him wild and exactly when to back off to elongate the torture.  And she did it, sucking harder and then gently, teasing and tormenting with her tongue and her teeth.  She tasted him and herself and drove her nails like hooks into his hips to remind him to be still.  He was.  He didn’t move again, panting desperately, whimpering pathetically, his hands in her hair but not pulling.  Pliant in a sense.  Ceding all control.  Submitting to her now.  She knew how to _make_ him to do that.  To drive Captain America down and keep him there.  The big muscles of his thighs bunched, and his abdomen clenched.  His eyes were blown wide, black rimmed by hints of blue, and then he squeezed them shut and tipped his head back in a soundless cry of _want._ That alone was a sign of just how close he was.  “Nat, I can’t – please, please, _please_ –”

She pulled away.  “Maybe you don’t deserve it,” she said in a throaty murmur.  She kept up pressure on him, stroking hard with her fingers now.  “Huh?  Maybe you need to say something.”

“God, _please_ –”

“Say you’re sorry,” she demanded.  Her tone was much harsher than she intended, but she was still so angry.  It was all blurring together now, heat and fire and pleasure and pain, anger and grief and love.  The room was spinning, and her head was swimming in a dizzying, heady rush of adrenaline and endorphins.  This was ridiculous, inappropriate, _wrong_ , complete debauchery and people could hear and someone could walk in and she was so, so furious and turned on and she needed to hear him _say it_.  “Say you’re sorry!”

He wasn’t giving a goddamn inch.  “I told you.  _Never._ ”

She gave a cry of frustration and straddled him, sinking down onto him in one quick, jarring movement.  It was so right and so wrong, having him inside her like this.  He keened, arching his back now, and she didn’t waste a moment, leaning back and digging her fingers into his thighs and rolling her hips hard.  This…  As much as having him manhandle her was intoxicating and exciting (and it was – it _really_ was), this was what she lived for.  Control over the speed, the pace, the motion.  Control over him.  She could watch, see the emotions play across his face, see the pleasure, the desperation, the frustration.  It all too clearly mirrored her own, bliss sparking across her nerves and leaving her tingling and suffering with need.  Had she been more in control of herself, she would have dragged this out longer, made him plead, made him scream.  As it was, though, her lust made it impossible to hold back.  She moved faster, digging her knees into his hips, breathing hard through parted lips.  There didn’t seem to be enough oxygen, not for either of them, and she stole what little he had with a searing kiss.  “You never know when to quit,” she hissed, grinding down harder.

“Nope,” he gasped.  He smirked, the little shit.  “I can do this all day.”

A yowl of irritation burst from her lips, and she leaned up to twist her hips more.  He reached for them, for her breasts, but she grabbed his hands and pinned them by his head.  The change in angle had him whimpering.  Of course, he was letting her hold him down like this, and she knew that, but at this moment, she felt as if she had all the power in the world.  The power to give him what he so desperately desired.  The power to take it away.  Again, it was so wrong yet so right.  Breathing harder and harder, she trailed her hands down his wrists, down his forearms, fingers light at first but then digging more with her nails.  Across his biceps and pecs, over the flat buds of his nipples, gouging into the firm muscles of his stomach.  She looked at that, at the red lines she made, at the fact that he didn’t even so much as flinch.  She knew how sensitive he was thanks to the serum.  It wasn’t just during sex.  It was _everything._   He saw more, heard more, tasted and smelled things more.  _Felt_ everything acutely.  That meant he felt pain more, too, but he hardly reacted, hardly cared.  Hardly seemed to notice at all.  _Masochist._

No, that wasn’t it at all.  He didn’t find pain gratifying.  He didn’t enjoy suffering.  He just… didn’t let it stop him from doing what he needed to do.  It didn’t faze him.  He was so much stronger than what hurt him that he just endured it, overcame it, fought through it.  He always had.  He could bear it.  This wasn’t about flying a plane full of bombs into the ice or standing up to bullies twice his size or planting himself firmly between a tank and the woman he loved.  He didn’t do those things because he didn’t care about the consequences.

He did them because the consequences of _not_ doing them were the things he couldn’t bear.

_I love you.  I’m always going to protect you._

This was who he was.  Lying down to let her have what she needed.  Fighting to keep her (and everyone else) safe.  Sometimes it was easy to forget that Captain America didn’t make Steve Rogers.  Steve Rogers made Captain America.

And she loved Captain America.

This was… so fucking _stupid_.

She’d stopped moving.  She hadn’t even realized it.  And he had no idea why.  If he saw the change in her, he didn’t care.  He simply took the opening, grabbing her hips and flipping them easily despite his leg.  Natasha was disoriented enough that she cried out to be under him, suddenly trapped again by his weight.  Never once had he left the heat of her body, and almost immediately he was driving into her again, holding himself up with fists on either side of her head.  He was sweating, his face shining with it, beads of it sliding down his shoulders and neck to gather in the hollow of his throat before dripping down his chest.  And, God, that was incredible.  The way he looked now.  Intent on winning, on making her reach her peak first, on continuing this argument in which they’d become so lost.  On fighting.

Stupid.  Silly.  Insane.  _Madness._

For a moment she simply laid there, struck by the dawning realization that this was ridiculous. And it wasn’t nice.  _At all._   They were having sex amidst a sea of debris, broken shelves and fallen supplies.  Something was poking her in the back.  Something else was digging into her side.  Something _else_ was tangled around her arms and tangled around him.  She was sliding on paper underneath her and the cold, unpleasant floor.  Desire warred with discomfort, and when she looked down between them, she couldn’t help the laugh that burst from her lips.

He stopped.  “What?”  The angry, flummoxed, exasperated expression on his face made it worse, and she laughed louder.  “What’s so funny?”

She tried to bite her lip to prevent herself from losing it completely.  Instead she dropped a hand over her face, pointing to his belly where some of the warning tape she’d spotted before was stuck to him by his sweat.  It was draped down onto her, too, right over her lower pelvis and hips, right above…  He leaned back, staring slack-jawed.  Then he laughed, too.

“DO NOT ENTER” was printed in big, black, block letters, planted very boldly right across her…  Well.

“Oh, my God,” she cried around a fit of giggling.  The craziness of it all, the build-up of fury and grief and frustration…  All the sudden she was letting it go and letting it go _like this._   She shook with how hard she was laughing, struggling to get a breath, and her hysteria pulled him right down with her.  The frantic need to _fight_ each other was gone, melting all the tension like a long, shuddering sigh.  It felt so good to let it go.  Better than arguing, than winning, than _anything_.  She smiled like a fool, blushing and flushing and gasping.  “God…”

He shook his head, giving a dopey grin, and ripped the tape away.  “You always tell me I’m a stickler for the rules,” he rasped.  “But I’m not.”

“You’re not?”

“No.  Let me…”  He waved his arm frantically, but the tape was glued to him, it seemed, stubbornly curling around his skin.  She laughed again, and moaned when that shifted him inside her, and the desperation came back, cleaner this time, a fever for him and nothing else.  “Damn it, damn it, _get off_ …”  He sputtered and scrambled uselessly another few seconds, and she couldn’t stand it, panting and giggling and moaning in equal parts.  Squirming impatiently and reaching for him.  He was completely tangled and too clumsy and flustered to do anything about it.  “To hell with it.”

Suddenly he was back over her, this time kissing with that love and devotion and pure passion again, this time sweeping her slight form into his arms to get her up off the cold floor, this time holding her close and tight and moving hard.  Natasha cried out, eyelids fluttering, the world going white and hazy.  _Oh, God.  Oh, God._   He thrust fast, deep, filling her completely, and she clutched him vehemently.  It was good, better, beyond amazing, and she felt her nails scratch down his back of their own accord and her teeth sunk into his collarbone.  She tasted salt, his sweat and hers, and felt his arms contract around her, his mouth buried in the nape of her neck.  She rode the furious waves of pleasure with her eyes squeezed shut and her mind blissfully blank, with all of her senses on that tightening knot of ecstasy inside.  _“Silneye,”_ she begged.  He obliged her, grunting with every fast breath against her shoulder.  “ _Bystreye._   Oh, please, please…”

“Can’t,” he whimpered.

She couldn’t, either.  “So close–”

He moaned, and she could see and feel him fighting _not_ to let go.  She was doing the same.  Yet her slightly vindictive side won out.  It was completely ridiculous, but she was still Black Widow.  She didn’t back down from a fight.  When it came down to it, he wasn’t going to beat her here.  So she clenched down on him, squeezing him inside and out, and he _lost_.

He came with a muffled cry, shuddering almost violently, tightening his grip on her so much that it hurt.  Her own pleasure was forgotten for a moment as she moved his face to hers so she could kiss him through it, firm but more tenderly, softly sliding her mouth across his as he whined and shivered with pleasure.

It was quiet a moment.  For the first time in a week, she felt… right.  Complete.  Natasha threaded her hands through his damp hair, tight and possessive, slowly nipping at his lips as he returned to himself.  When his breathing slowed to something reasonable and his quaking stilled, she lifted his chin and stared into his half-lidded, blissed out eyes.  She couldn’t help herself.  She really couldn’t.  “I win,” she whispered with a smirk.

He snapped out of it _fast_ , and before she knew what was happening, he was pushing himself up and scrambling down her body.  She had no time to react before his left hand was on her right hip, holding her firmly captive once again, and his right hand went right between her still spread legs.  She gave one throaty cry of objection, but it was too weak and too late and – _oh God oh God oh God_ – his fingers were inside her again, going deep and exactly where she could hardly stand it, and there was no sense in fighting but she squirmed and struggled because it was _too much_ but _not enough_ but he pressed harder and firmer and he lowered his face in between her thighs to kiss her and then dip his tongue inside and this was filthy in all the best ways and unbelievable and–

She screamed, rolling her hips up instinctively, and her release suddenly stampeded over her.  It was so intense, so, so, _so_ good, and she couldn’t do much of anything but feel pleasure for what seemed like a very long time.  Eventually she noticed other things.  Cold, drying sweat.  That thing (whatever it was) still poking into her back.  The warning tape still tangled all round her.  Him giving her a gentle, lasting kiss, sweetly careful of overly sensitive flesh, before leaning back up and crawling over her.  He collapsed there, pillowing his head on her stomach, and she reached down to hold him, _still_ trying to catch her breath.

That was…  Clint was absolutely right.  _This_ made fighting almost worth it.

As she lay there, though, boneless and limp and spent, listening to the slowing pace of her heart and feeling the slowing patter of his, the hum of the helicarrier all around them, remembering what had led them here (and how awful and mean and stupid it had all been), remembering the unanswered shame that was still curling deep inside her…  The words came unbidden.  “I’m sorry.”

Her whisper had him leaning up and shaking his head, his eyes wide and deeply blue and deeply earnest.  Deeply, sorrowfully repentant.  “No, no.  I’m sorry.  You…  You’re _absolutely_ right.  I don’t think.  Sometimes I just do it and I don’t even stop to–”

“That’s who you are.  I can’t ask you not to be who you are, especially when you’re so good and so much what everyone needs–”

“Yeah, but sometimes I have to be what you need–”

“That doesn’t give me the right to treat you like I did.  I was terrible to you.  I’m so, so sorry.  I can’t believe what I said.”

“I can’t believe what _I_ said.”

“God, Steve, I didn’t mean it.  I’d do anything for you.  I’d do the exact same thing she did.  I’d stay with you till the end and live on the promises you make me.  I’ll be by your side no matter what, no matter what you have to do.  I’ll be with you.”

“It’s alright if you don’t want to let me in!  That’s who you are, too.  I understand.  It’s not my place to pry.  It’s not.”

“No, I want you to–”

“And the way I treated you on the mission.  You should have called me out.  Putting you on report?  What the hell’s matter with me?  I was such a jerk.”

“No, no.  I deserved it.  I deserved it for what I said–”

“I’ll be more careful.  I swear on everything I hold dear.  I’ll be more careful!”

“No, I – I’ll learn to be stronger.  I won’t get mad.”

“No, you _should._   When I’m being – being a reckless asshole, _call me out._ ”

“Steve…”

“I don’t want to ever lose you!”

_“Never.”_

“I love you, Nat!” He scooped her into his arms, pressing as close as he could, claiming her mouth in a frantic, powerful kiss.  “I love you.  Please forgive me?”

She cupped his face, smiling through her tears.  “There’s nothing to forgive.”  She peppered kisses all over his jaw and cheeks and nose and eyelids, fast, light affirmations of how much she needed and cherished him, before sealing her mouth over his again.  “I love you, too.  I love you!”

There was a knock at the door, and they both went stock still amidst another feverish, life-affirming kiss.  “Cap?  Nat?”

_Clint._

Natasha’s eyes went wide, a jolt of horror washing over her.  Steve was stiff as a board, sucking in a quiet, panicked breath.  How the hell had Barton gotten out of medical so quick?  “If you guys are done with your discussion, Fury’s waiting for the debrief.  And he’s pretty pissed, so I suggest we get a move on.”  He sounded innocent and long-suffering.  At this point, she was so turned around in her thinking that she had no idea if he was the world’s most perceptive person or a blissfully ignorant idiot.  Either way, he was a jackass.  “Anyway, hope you guys got it out of your systems.”

The sound of soft snickering drew her attention, and she turned around to find Steve laughing that sort of twisted, insane laugh of the eternally, _hopelessly_ damned.  “Oh, we’re never living this down…”

Gracelessly she stood, wincing not so much at the throbbing bruises all over her but at the damage done to the store room.  She surveyed the dented wall and battered shelves, the mess of stuff all over the floor, the toppled cones (so that was what had been poking into her back) and unspooled tape, the torn clothes and themselves…  Mussed and sweaty and covered in bite marks and hickeys and gouges and flushed from sex and there was _no way_ they could hide what they’d been doing.  If Fury was angry about how they’d behaved on the mission, this was going to be worse.

Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to care.  Like _at all._

Steve was trying to pull his pants up, grimacing too as he took in the destruction.  “Shit,” he whispered.  She’d never heard him swear this much or seen him blush this hard.  “What do we do?”

“How am I supposed to know?” she whispered back, staggering over to her uniform and scooping it off the floor.  “You started this!”

“Me?”

“You had to have your discussion!”

His jaw tightened and his eyes darkened with rekindled ire.  “That’s not fair!  You’re the one who told me to – to–”

“Well, you didn’t have to follow it!” she hissed.  “Such a good little soldier, right?  Always following orders.  Always – _mmph!”_   He swept her into his arms, silencing her complaints with a firm kiss.  She dropped her uniform again, moaning wantonly at just how interested he was in doing more of that thing he didn’t seem capable of naming now.  _Oh, wow._   She pulled away with great effort, pushing him back gently.  “Later, good little soldier.  You can finish apologizing to me.”  He rolled his eyes.  “Right now, you and I need to get ourselves out of this.  We’re Captain America and Black Widow.  We can figure this out.”  She glanced around.  “Start picking up.”

He groaned but went to do as she asked.  As she stuffed her legs back into her uniform, aching so pleasantly and so completely _satisfied,_ she was pretty damn sure there was nothing under the sun quite as good as settling their differences.

* * *

So as much as there were bad things about being in love with Captain America, there were some decidedly awesome perks, too.   He was stubborn and hard-headed, but he was also loyal to a fault and devoted like no one else.  He took too many unnecessary risks and too many hard hits, but he _could_ take them, and that would be tempered by greater care, patience, and understanding.  He was something of a slob sometimes, the usual boyfriend things and all that, but it was easy to overlook that in the face of how good a man he was.  Better than she deserved.  Of course, he’d always be quick to tell her that she had that backwards, that she was more than he deserved.  That was a huge plus, just how willing he was to love her.  To take care of her like she was the most precious thing in the world.  To protect her from _anything_ and _everything._

In this case, he was standing between her and the wrath of one pissed-off SHIELD Director.  Sure enough, Fury was his own brand of livid at their conduct during the mission.  Clint had stood there, silently trying not to laugh, as their boss had ripped them a new one, and, Steve being Steve, had boldly assumed all the guilt himself.  Out came a bunch of bullshit about him being in command so the behavior of his men (and women) really was his responsibility in the end.  The buck stopped with him or some such.  She’d tried once or twice to speak, to take at least _some_ of the blame (because she knew she deserved it as much as he did), but he was vehemently laying down on the wire and, well…  She let him.  It was okay to do that.  It didn’t mean she couldn’t handle it or herself.  It was no poor reflection of her own strength and determination.  It didn’t make her less of a SHIELD agent or Avenger or fighter.  It just made her grateful that he was so good to her.

Fury didn’t quite buy what he was selling, though, at least not entirely, so he levied his punishment on them both equally.  And this was another perk of dating Captain America; he had sway that pretty much no one else in the world did, particularly with people who were thrilled to have his help in fighting the war against evil.  Decorated war hero and living legend and beloved national symbol and all that.  So what could have been a disaster turned into a suspension.  For both of them.  They were both relieved of duty until they “got their shit together”.  Well, that was just fine with her.  _With_ both of them.  They were trying not to betray just how relieved and shaken they were as they fled his office, summarily rebuked and chastised and praying they could be this lucky.

If anyone knew about the storage closet they’d destroyed and barely ( _barely_ ) put back together, it wasn’t obvious.  They sure as hell weren’t going to bring it up.

Out in the safety of the corridor, she dispensed with the contrite act and threw herself all over Steve, making out like a horny teenager in the middle of the helicarrier.  Steve had resisted for all of a second before succumbing, because she always got her way.  And Clint had rolled his eyes at the very public display of affection and walked away, grumbling, “Thank God.  Now get a room.”

They did.  It was much, much nicer than the storage closet.

It was snowing outside in Aspen, but inside paradise there was nothing but heat.  There was a fire rumbling in the hearth on the wall opposite the bed.  The lights were dimmed.  Roses by the dozens (that he’d had waiting for her) decorated everything, petals dropped on the couches, on the tables and carpets, on the bed.  An empty bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket by the fireplace, and two flutes were there, twinkling in the glow.  The room was quiet save for rushed breaths and whimpers and the rustle of white, silken sheets.  They’d honestly had aspirations to go out that evening after they’d flown in for the weekend.  Honestly.  Go out and get dinner and explore and snowboard and ski.  Enjoy the crisp winter wonderland on this Valentine’s Day.  But why do that when you could have this?  Have it _over and over_ _again_ on every surface of this amazing lodge?  In every position?  Why do _anything_ else?

After all, this was a _definite_ perk of being in love with Captain America.  Super soldier stamina.  The make-up sex was turning into a marathon.  That was _just fine_ with her.  They had a week of withdrawal to make up for, after all.

Natasha cried out, climax bursting over her again.  It was bright and too strong, bordering on pain from the sheer _number of orgasms_ she’d had, and she gasped and arched her back.  Steve wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into his arms, sucking a new series of marks on her neck and shoulders before thrusting hard once more and following her over the crest.  He groaned through it, and they clung to each other, lips locked but too tired and spent to actually kiss.  She shivered, absolutely boneless.  Deliciously exhausted.  Perfectly sore.  She hardly even noticed when he pulled loose of her, when he gathered her in his arms and settled them both back down onto the bed.

It took them a long while to catch their breaths this time, for their thundering hearts to slow, for their senses to realign to anything other than ecstasy.  Natasha closed her eyes, running her fingers lightly down the length of his forearm where it was across her breasts.  He pressed his lips to her temple, and she hummed appreciatively before wrapping an arm around the back of his neck and pulling his mouth closer to hers.  They traded lazy kisses for a moment, luxuriating in the simplicity of it.  In that bone-deep sense of completion and belonging that permeated every part of them both.  _Love._

Steve went back to kissing her temple, holding her tighter and breathing deeply of her.  Natasha smiled.  “I’m changing my mind about Valentine’s Day,” she admitted.

“Hmm.  Yeah?”

“It has its nice parts.”

“You mean my romantic getaway?”

She’d never imagined _liking_ that idea.  But, then, she’d never imagined how wonderful it could be.  “It’s nice.”

“Next time, though, you don’t have to pick a fight with me to get me to take you somewhere like this, you know.”  His lips teased against her forehead, his voice a low rumble. “Or to get me to make love to you until you can’t walk right anymore.”

She pulled away to give him a mock glare.  “I did _not_ pick a fight with you.  You picked one with me.”

“Nope.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Captain America does not pick fights.”

“Damn it, Rogers.  You can’t ever admit you’re wrong!”

“Incorrigible,” he said, beaming.

“That we can agree on, at least.”

“At the _very_ least.”  She smiled to that, kissing his lips.  It was all fine.  Couples fought.  He wasn’t perfect, and neither was she, and there was no such thing as being perfect together all the time.  But the good parts far, _far_ outweighed the bad.  She felt accomplished that they’d gotten through this, their first _real_ argument.  It was all about how they’d handled it, and it hadn’t torn them apart.  In fact, they were stronger for it.  Better for it.  More in love.  _More._

She shook her head against her thoughts, nipping his lower lip teasingly before sitting up a bit.  She stretched like a cat, smiling against the burn in her muscles and the throbbing ache pretty much everywhere else.  “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Okay.”

“And I can walk just fine.”

“Sure, you can.”  He winked at her, smug and such an ass.

She slid off the bed.  She had to admit she was pretty wobbly, but she thought she did a fairly good job hiding it.  Fairly.  Her first step, though…  “Whoa, whoa!”  She wavered, maybe making just a bit of a show, and he bought it, hook, line, and sinker, because there he was, sweeping her into his arms bridal style.  This was another perk.  A really nice one.  It helped that he was pretty gullible.

And she was pretty incorrigible herself.  “My hero.”  She smiled, wrapping her arms around his neck and sweetly kissing him.

He grinned.  “My damsel in distress.”

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

>  _Silneye_ – Harder.  
>  _Bystreye_ \- Faster.
> 
> Extra special thanks to the amazing [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com) for another fantastic artwork inspired by this story (or that inspired this story - can't remember which and it doesn't matter! :-))


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